A Court of Lies and Resurrection
by makeyourchoice234
Summary: AU: Feyre is dead, torn apart by Amarantha when Tamlin did not send her away in time. Tamlin, forced to submit to Amarantha's terms, finds himself looking for help (and finding affection) in places he never expected, while Lucien allies with an ancient enemy to save him. WARNING Extensive explicit adult content, violence, MA This became kind of epic.
1. Chapter 1

AU: Feyre is dead before the curse ever has a chance to be broken, and Tamlin must be presented to Amaranthe. Amaranthe wins… or so she thinks.

* * *

Tamlin stared down at the letter in his hand. He had been staring at it for a long time. The servants he could hear, whispering and hushed, out in the hall. Their masks may have blanked much of their expressions, but their eyes gave enough away, didn't they? It was almost over. Tamlin's own mask did not move; neither of them did, either the one affixed to his face, or the face itself. Grief at Feyre's death still beat dully within him and he wondered if he really had come to love a mortal so much, so fast.

There were two men who stood before him. One wore his foxlike mask easily, for all that Tamlin knew he would have clawed it off and taken half his skin with it, if it would have worked. The other, unmasked, smiled easily, dark wings folded behind him.

_She dumped a winged man over our border to die, and you didn't even care_. _Were you the one who tore them off, at her command? Did you wonder what it would feel like, if done to you?_

The letter had his nightmares written into every line, but… there was something else here. Something that would save his servants, save Lucien, save the Spring Court. He could not let them be taken as Amarantha's slaves. Tamlin knew the stories of how the Queen Under the Mountain treated slaves.

"Well?" Rhysand drawled the word out, turning one syllable into two, into three. "You have to admit the offer is generous. You _lost the human woman, _and still she offers to set your Court free if you come to her willingly. You could hardly have asked for a better outcome." Rhysand shrugged one shoulder slowly, a gesture Tamlin loathed. "The Spring Court answers to her, of course, but you see she's even given you leave to name a Regent."

"I'm surprised she gave so much slack to your leash," Tamlin snapped, eyes narrowed. "To come so far, and it's not even Calanmai. I thought you weren't allowed outside any longer. After you _refused _to kill Feyre."

Rhysand did not rise to the bait, but a pulsing swallow in his throat told Tamlin his aim had been true. "Her Majesty thought I made a fitting emissary today, since you will soon replace me."

Tamlin's eyes drifted back to the letter. She must have written it herself; the script was elegant and beautiful and yet there were jagged, dangerous edges to the swirling calligraphy. Amarantha, who pretended at a royal bearing but never quite had the patience for follow-through. Amarantha, summoning her new pet home. With the death of Feyre, all his hopes were gone. Even if Rhysand had refused, Amarantha herself had never even hesitated. She'd torn Feyre apart.

Tamlin shook himself all over, trying to calm his mind. Lucien could keep order, until things were settled. The Spring Court would not be left unattended, although even now he could see darkness pooling at the edges of the woods, hear the songs of the trees become muted and mournful.

It was over.

"I… accept Amarantha's offer of mercy for my Court. Give her my thanks," Tamlin said through gritted teeth." I will appear before her tonight, of my own will. I understand that the deal is done."

At first, Rhysand did not move, only raised one eyebrow. Lucien stepped up, effortlessly putting himself between Rhysand and Tamlin, fixing his good eye on Rhysand as his metal eye whirred, just barely audible. "The deal is done, Rhysand. If Amarantha finds this… _generosity _in her heart, my Lord will honor it."

"Can't wait." Rhysand's voice was nearly a sneer, but even he had thinly-veiled relief in his tone. "I've waited a long time for this." He spun around and stalked away. There was a scramble of servants as he passed through the doorway into the outside air, and winnowed himself away. All of them battling to not be touched by the High Lord of Night's awful darkness.

Tamlin grasped for words that would not come. He raised his eyes, looking slowly all around Rosehall's beautiful walls. Thinking of the gallery he had shown her. The first few smiles that he had brought out from Feyre's face. Discovering she could not read and writing limericks for her as a kind of gift, some way to break the ice between their races. Strange, to have so much of her reflected here when he'd really hardly known her at all. "Lucien. You will act as High Lord in my stead? I am… not sure how much aid I will be able to give, Under the Mountain. I don't know how much... power she'll give you."

"Yes." Lucien did not look at him. His red hair seemed dimmed, somehow. Tamlin stood there, for a long moment, trying to come up with something to tell his Court, some message to pass on. Words had never been an easy thing for him, and neither was giving up; but Feyre was dead and with her, all the hope he'd placed his own survival on.

"You will… say something, to all of them? For me?"

"Of course, Tam. I'll come up with something moving and eloquent. Everyone will be duly impressed. You'll be written into history as a great speechgiver, in the end." The humor was bitter, and Lucien's voice trembled in a way Tamlin could not bear to hear.

"I'm going to my rooms," He muttered, and turned to leave.

Lucien cleared his throat. "Tam…"

Tamlin paused, glancing sidelong at him. Rage boiled within his chest, a helpless child's rage at a world he could not change. "She sent an outfit," Lucien said, softly, pityingly. Tamlin could feel the edge of his claws pressing against his knuckles, wanting to tear and rip and kill. Would he ever have a chance to hunt again, down in the darkness? "You are expected to wear it. When you are… presented. Do you want me to go with you?"

"No. I want you here. I want…" He trailed off, thinking of her eyes. "I want _someone _to be safe." Tamlin paused, his jaw working, staring down at the floor. He tried to say something more. To explain, to even _begin_, what Lucien's friendship had been for him.

Finally, he simply growled wordlessly, crumbled the letter into a ball and threw it to the side, and stalked away. Lucien closed his eyes, good eye and metal, as the servants outside the door collapsed into murmurs, a mix of excitement - finally, the masks would come off! - and fear that, perhaps, Amarantha might not keep her end of the bargain at all. Amarantha's mercy was famously subject to her whims.

Finally, Lucien reached down and picked up the letter, gently unfolding it, reading it himself. What he saw there made his eyes flare, just slightly, and his face blanched. He looked the direction Tamlin had gone again.

"Shit."

He took in a few deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. Then he snapped his fingers, Alis appearing as if she'd waited her whole life for the summons, staring at him. He could see tear streaks on the bark-skin of her cheeks, where they trailed out from under her mask. "Alis, I need a new robe. And a dead chicken."

Alis nodded and hurried away. Lucien swallowed.

_I have a Suriel to catch._

* * *

The outfit was simple, his usual shirt with a baldric, although the pants were tighter than he liked. He could hardly hunt in pants like this. _Well, you're the prey this time, so no worry there_. Really, though, even that wasn't so bad. What bothered him was what the outfit _meant. _The shirt, baldric, and pants were all the same flat shade of black. Tamlin wasn't exactly vain - well, compared to the rest of the fae, he wasn't - but he knew it did not suit his skin, or hair.

What was left of his hair, anyway. What wasn't in a pile on the floor behind him.

She was dressing him like a doll, in clothes that didn't look right and hardly fit, just because she could. He'd agreed, after all, to go to her tonight. Willingly. He would kneel before the Queen. His stomach flipped and he fought to keep himself calm.

The outfit wasn't completely flat. In certain lights he could see a silvery trace of letters and patterns, like tattoos. _Like Rhysand. _Tamlin fought back the urge to vomit. She was really piling on the subtlety, wasn't she?

He stopped before a mirror looking himself over. He'd done what she had ordered in her letter; used a knife to cut his long hair short. A bit of blond fell just over his eyes, but the rest was as close-cropped as he could make it. He'd put on the black outfit, down to a pair of newly-made boots in a leather so expensively fine that even he had never seen anything like it. His damned mask, the emeralds making him sick in their leaflike whorls, could never hide enough. It couldn't hide his disgusted sneer at himself.

The orders in the letter had been exact, and the threat had been precisely spelled out. Do what she says to the letter, or forfeit the Spring Court to her service forever. Everyone, down to the children, would be given to her will. There had been a very… detailed threat in there about what would happen to Lucien.

_I don't think he'll need his tongue any longer, unless perhaps you beg me to leave it as a gift to you. Perhaps he could use it on you. I of course will leave him his eye, so he can watch while you-_

"For my Court," Tamlin said out loud, in something just louder than a whisper.

He straightened the way the tunic laid over his hips, frowning at himself. The black washed his skin out to nearly nothing, even with his tan from time spent outdoors. He looked like a short-haired ghost of himself, with only his green-and-gold eyes a splash of color in his expression. Exactly what she intended. An eternity so far from the sunlight… he could feel himself withering at the thought. No more spring. No woods. No hunt.

As if Rosehall itself mourned, he heard cracking somewhere above, the sound of a mournful wind shifting the foundation of this very old manor.

_Go on, then. _He swore he could hear the manor itself whispering. _Go be Amarantha's whore. Rhysand could use the recovery time._

He snorted. There was a sound outside his door, and he paused. He could see shadows through the crack at the bottom of the doorway. Feet. It must be Lucien.

Tamlin walked over as if to open it, but paused his with his hand on the door. The two of them stood, one man on either side, in a long, drawn-out silence. Tamlin never saw it, but Lucien raised his own hand, the red-headed man standing in silence with his fingers resting on the door in exactly the same spot as Tamlin's.

Finally, the shadowy feet simply turned and walked away. He listened to the footsteps disappear down the hall, and leaned his forehead against the door.

_It was never supposed to come to this._

"I haven't got all day," A silky voice purred behind him. Tamlin spun around to glare at Rhysand, dressed in his own finery. One raised eyebrow told him Rhysand noticed the similarity in their outfits. Where the black suited Rhys, it washed Tamlin out.

_Mirror images. We're mirror images of each other. She's not going to let Rhysand go. She wants a set. Does… does he know she won't let him go?_

"How are you _here? _These are my rooms! Get out!"

"Your time is up. The deal is done, and you belong to Amarantha. Now." Rhysand smiled, languidly, and his tone dropped to something softer, a lover's voice. "I can find anyone who belongs to her, wherever they are. She asked me to come and get you. Apparently she thought you might waste _time_ if left to your own devices."

Tamlin, never one to have ready words for any occasion, only growled, the roar of the beast an echo behind the sound. Rhysand, after a moment, simply shrugged again and winnowed the both of them away.

* * *

Amarantha had spared no expense for the celebration. Spiced wine poured from huge fountains. Guests simply dipped their cups as they saw fit and drank them full nearly to the brim, laughing at the droplets that found their way down the side of the glass to splash onto the stone floor. Tables groaned under the weight of delicacies from every Court in the kingdom.

Musicians played in the corner, a series of mocking mutations of the Spring Court's favorite melodies, changed into minor keys, slower tempos. Turning sprightly into seductive, and cheerfulness into lust.

When Tamlin entered the hall, the sound of the crowd quieted. _By the Cauldron, there are so many of them here to watch me fall. _He ignored their stares, the whispers behind their hands at his close-cropped hair that fell just barely over his eyes, his skin seemingly paler set against his black outfit, following Rhysand like a puppy.

He ignored most of all the familiar faces he saw mingling through the crowd, the members of the Spring Court who had chosen to suck up to Amarantha, to kiss the ring. Others who had stayed here for one reason or another, but with their masks intact. _How right their choices seem, compared to where I am now._ The High Lords were here, no doubt at least a few happy to witness his humiliation. Perhaps not, though; it was only a reflection of their own humiliation at her hands. It was _their_ power she was using to hold him.

Everyone would have their stories to tell soon enough, Tamlin thought. His black boots dragged as he forced himself to walk forward, Rhysand falling behind to greet a courtier here or there. His mask slipped, just slightly, and he took in a sudden breath at feeling a hiss of air touch the skin underneath.

"Almost off," Rhysand muttered from just behind him. "Play your part, Spring."

"I fucking hate you, Nightmare," Tamlin snapped, but he kept it a whisper.

"You're going to hate fucking her more," Rhysand replied, that smug smile playing on his face once again. Tamlin fought back the claws that teased at the ends of his fingertips. He could have ruined Rhysand for Amarantha forever, he thought, and never batted an eyelash. Torn his mouth to pieces so he could never smile again. Ripped him apart where it mattered most to someone like Amarantha, left Rhysand's mutilated cock in her bed. _Calm, Tamlin. _

"High Lord Tamlin of the Spring Court!" Amarantha cried joyfully, announcing his entrance and calling every single fae to turn and look right at him. Tamlin's face burned with shame and he froze where he stood, stone heart a hammer in his chest. Her joy was evident, her bright eyes shone. He had never seen her wicked face so radiant. Tamlin clenched his hands into fists. "Welcome to Under the Mountain, where you will now make your home, by my side."

There was a curl of thought inside his mind, a whisper that did not belong to him. _You'll writhe in my bed._ Tamlin flinched, and felt Rhysand put a hand on his arm.

"I should have told you she does that, here," He murmured. There was something like sympathy in his face and Tamlin snorted, disgusted at the position he'd found himself in. He had never been one to beg for pity. He should have simply slept with her when she asked. He should have been her lover, until she tired of him. None of this had to happen. He'd done it all to himself. He should have protected Feyre, sent her away in time, gone to Amarantha and tried to bargain.

He _should_ have torn them all limb from limb, all of the fae, left Under the Mountain a bloody mess with Amarantha's corpse as its centerpiece, to turn to bone and be buried. Let the mortals find them someday, when they were brave enough to breach the wall and see why the High Fae's presence was gone. His hands twitched. There was a hint of fur standing up, sharp teeth to bare. He could _feel his claws-_

"I won't have you do any of _that _without my permission," Amarantha said from her throne, and the welcome reassurance of claws and teeth just… vanished. He struggled to recover it, but nothing happened. His heart dropped to somewhere near his knees. Amarantha watched his obvious panic with delight.

"The Court of the High Queen of Prythian recognizes Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court. You may approach the throne," Amarantha purred. She crooked her finger to him.

Only Rhysand's soft nudge got him to move forward, each step like a clanging bell in his mind. He went to her, standing before her throne. Her crown, with its jagged golden spikes, was a thing of hideous beauty. Jurian's bone hung at her neck, and his eye looked up at Tamlin with some strange intensity from the ring on her finger. Amarantha _was _beautiful, in the way that certain venomous snakes are beautiful. Her hair was in a pile of elaborate, perfect braids, immaculately pinned into a pattern that nearly made him dizzy. Those wide eyes focused intensely on his. His remaining powers were wilting here, more as he stood before her and felt her magic settling into him, into his bones and under his skin. He wondered if Rosehall would simply collapse, without a High Lord to care for it.

What could Lucien really do? It wasn't his Court, and it was a Court under Amarantha's sway, now.

The smell of her was everywhere, a cloying vanilla touched with cinnamon. A sweetness with rot underneath. He felt drunk on it, terrified by it. She stood and leaned over just a little, put her hand out, rings up. "Kneel, Lord Tamlin. You are High Lord no more."

_What am I, then?_

He hesitated, but there was an ache between his shoulders and an unseen pressure that simply compelled him helplessly downwards until his knees cracked on the stone floor. He did not flinch, to his credit. He reached out, taking her hand in his, looking up at her as he slowly kissed Jurian's eye. It twitched, under his lips, and he fought back sour bile. "I am still Lord, my Queen," was all he said, but every seething ounce of hate he felt for her was in his whisper.

Amarantha smiled at him. The love in her smile was so genuine, so carefree and pure, that she looked like someone else entirely. _This_ woman he could have loved, might even have helped ascend the throne. She could have fooled him for decades, with a smile like that. Centuries. He understood, now, how the High Lords had been so easily deceived. Her smile softened her, made her look almost like… but it was gone, replaced by the sneer he knew so well, saw in his dreams. Nightmares. She stepped back and sat back in her throne, several feet away. "All this could have been avoided if you had come to me in the first place, accepted my love for what it was without being forced. The Court of the High Queen's Consort could have wielded great power and influence."

"You know I could not do that." Why not? He'd doomed himself and Lucien and all of them in the end.

"No," She said thoughtfully, pulling her hand back. "You couldn't, could you?" As Tamlin went to stand, she shook her head. "No. Crawl to me on your knees."

In the hush of the court, he could do nothing else. His body was no longer responding to his commands, only hers. He felt fear, an icy stab through his chest, a stone settling cold into his stomach, as he crawled on his hands and knees the last few feet to kneel before her.

Was _this _why Rhysand never stopped helping her along with her schemes? Was his body truly no longer his own?

"The High Queen can show mercy," She said, now loudly, a performance for her court. Representatives of each court were there, the other five High Lords in attendance, Rhysand lounging in the shadows, as well as chosen courtiers. That vanilla scent was so heavy he felt himself gasping for air. "The Spring Court is free of its curse. But stand against me and the curse will be so much worse than his." She stood, making the most of every moment, tilting her hips to one side. Tamlin chose to stare down at her feet, realizing with a start that they were bare.

"Look up," She commanded. His eyes slowly rose, to meet hers. She reached down, ruffling her hand through his hair, smiling at him with that sparkling honest genuine _joy. _"I _win_, Tamlin," She said quietly. "You should have come here 49 years ago." She touched the side of his face, and his stomach twisted with disgust and… something else.

Something darker, and shameful.

Amarantha removed his mask, easy as you please, and dropped it onto the floor with a clatter. There were answering happy cries from those members of the Spring Court present as they freed their own faces. In Rosehall, he thought, Lucien must be pulling off his own mask, stepping outside into the air. Truly feeling the breeze on his face for the first time in fifty years. _For you, Lucien. For the Spring Court._

"Stand, Tamlin. Rhys, if you will." He stood as he was commanded, feeling Rhysand at his elbow again, grasping it gently. Tamlin swallowed and looked down at the ground. They were all _watching. _Every inch of his skin felt like it was caked in shame and slime.

"Say it, Tamlin," Amarantha commanded. "Say I won. Make it loud enough for them all to hear. Let your courtiers take _that_ moment back to your precious Lucien. Tell them what has happened here."

Tamlin felt Rhysand slowly turning him to face the crowd, but he was somewhere else, somewhere far away, trying to get a handle on how frightened he was. He'd never been good with words. He'd been better at war, but he wouldn't see any down here. Not the kind he knew how to fight.

He thought of Feyre's flashing eyes, her beauty, of the hope he'd had that she would be the one. He thought of her broken body, of his own servants carrying it away to be tended to. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as she'd died, a mix of genuine grief at losing her and fear of what it meant for his own future. It had been his own fault, for not sending her back over the border in time. For letting Amarantha find her.

He had hesitated too long to obey. He felt the compulsion again, the ugly twist of pain between his shoulder blades, the way even his body wanted to do what she said, although his mind resisted.

"You win, Amarantha," His voice said, as if from a distance, muffled in his mind. Someone shouting down a long cave. "My time has run out. I could not meet your demands." There was laughter, from some in the crowd. Cruel, jeering laughter. The other High Lords, though, did not join in. Tamlin fought to hold his head high, and saw in Kallias, the High Lord of the Winter Court, an answering rage that made him wonder if he might still have an ally or two, after all.

"My mercy has been great, for your Court," She said smugly. "I will hold to it. The Spring Court now belongs to me, but I will let them live in a bottled land. Let Lucien play caretaker, Lord-in-waiting, whatever he fancies himself. We have quite the new world to build, my love. Take him to my chambers, Rhys, and wait for me." She turned to address the crowd. "My new paramour must wait patiently for my attention, of course. My heart is only for my Court."

The courtiers tittered and jeered and Tamlin's face was crimson. He had never felt so ashamed of himself, of his failures. He would have roared at them all, but no words came to mind. His hands hung empty at his sides. "Rhys, darling?" Amarantha's voice drawled. "You remember your first night?"

Tamlin saw Rhysand's jaw tighten, teeth gritting together. Some old pain flashed in his eyes. If he heard the scandalized whispers of the courtiers, he did not show it. His head was held high. Tamlin realized the inner strength it took for Rhysand to withstand this, day in and day out. "Yes, my Lady. I remember."

"Prepare Tamlin just the same."

Rhys bowed at the waist, his hand still on Tamlin's arm. "Come with me, Tam, or she'll order you to," He muttered. The usual sneering hostility was gone, replaced by a simple emptiness, something that echoed the empty space inside Tamlin's own mind.

Tamlin went, drifting like a boat loosened from its moorings. Only Rhysand's touch kept him moving in any particular direction. They made it to her chamber doors before Tamlin simply could go no further, shivering like a leaf. He felt a sudden sympathy with the animals he had once hunted in the wood.

He stopped in his tracks as Rhysand opened the door and gestured him in. He turned to look at him, unable to hide the panic. "I can't-"

"You have to," Rhysand said, softly. "I'm sorry for what is about to happen. Please believe that. If it's a comfort, you'll enjoy it, in the moment. She makes sure you do." That flash of pain again.

"I don't want to enjoy it," Tamlin's lips were numb. Rhysand pulled him in, and he stared around. What nightmares Tamlin had often took place in some version of this room, especially as the countdown to the curse's end had begun to weigh on him. It looked nothing like he imagined. It was beautiful in here, not nightmarish. Well-lit and with a crackling fire adding a bit of warmth. It was the sort of room he would have loved to give Feyre. Everything was finely carved, smooth and shining wood everywhere he looked. Bookshelves, a vanity with a large mirror, everything a Queen might want in her private chambers.

_Including you._

"You don't get to _not_ enjoy it. You don't get to control it." Rhysand was lost in some inner world. "You will have no choices to make here."

The bed was huge, and could have easily fit a half-dozen people sleeping in it or more. Silver like moonlight snaked up around the wood at each corner, to the canopy that let a filmy black veil, speckled with starlight, slightly obscure the pile of blankets and pillows within. The walls seemed to shift as he walked, patterns moving in the wallpaper, forming eyes, as though they were watching him.

"Do you sleep here?" He asked. He'd mocked Rhysand for what he was so many times. He'd never imagined he would be her whore, too. He'd always thought there would be enough time.

_Feyre. I thought we had more time. I should never have kept you close to me_.

"No. I have my own chambers. She doesn't usually like me to stay, after. Thank the Cauldron for that, at least."

"Will I have my own, too?" There was something to hope for. Privacy. He felt himself cling to the thought like a raft in a storm-tossed ocean. In war and in hunt, all things made sense. In this, it was all chaos, and fear, and helplessness. It had been so, so long since Tamlin had felt so helpless.

"I don't know. I assume so. I… need to get you ready, Tamlin." The sneer was there, but for the first time it occurred to Tamlin that it was not a sneer of hate or smugness, but something self-protective. The ugly superiority was a mask he wore, a shield, a protection against the harm she could inflict.

"Ready how?"

Rhysand closed his eyes, briefly, eyebrows furrowing together. "For your first night." He gestured to the bed, pulling Tamlin over to it. As he pulled a cord, the veiled curtain was lifted on one side, and Tamlin saw what he has missed when they first came in. What the veil had obscured just enough to hide it.

A band of heavy, ugly iron was affixed just above the headboard, and ran the full length of it. There were twelve small circles soldered in. From each circle hung a chain, which began as links of that ugly ironl but gradually changed, silver beginning to twine around and through until the last few links shone in the firelight. At the end of each chain there was heavily engraved, thick silver cuff with a hinge. The bands hung open like terrible hungry smiles, a chorus of watchers, ready for him.

Six sets of silver cuffs.

Tamlin pulled back and away from Rhysand, staring at him wide-eyed. He tried to call for his claws again, and nothing happened. Nothing. "I don't _do_ that. Not even with-"

"You don't have a choice." Rhysand cut him off, frowning, that strange inward expression again. "You never get a choice."

"I don't _want_ it like this."

"Good for you. She does. Get on the bed. Please, before she-"

_Do as you're told, Tamlin. Let him chain you up. Enjoy it._

"Cauldron," Rhysand swore, softly. "She must be listening to us." They _both _flinched at her syrupy-sweet voice, as loud as if she'd been shouting inside their minds. For a moment Tamlin fought himself, tried to step back further, to get away.

The twist of pain in his shoulders hurt enough to make him grunt, and he stumbled onto his knees. Her magic threaded through every pore, that vanilla scent seeped into his nose until it was the only smell there was.

"Get up, Spring." Rhysand snapped. "It's not worth it. Focus on survival. Get through tonight, and the next night, and the night after that. If I can do this for fifty years, you can last for a few nights. And _never stop planning for your way out._"

"There isn't one," Tamlin said through numb lips, allowing himself to be dragged to his feet, moved into the bed. The mattress gave way invitingly underneath him as Rhys gently pushed him. He could feel the silk and fur and velvet of her sheets and blankets. Rhysand pushed him until his back rested against the headboard. He stared into Rhysand's face as one wrist was gently lifted above his head, trying to find some hint of his future in it. Rhysand was empty of expression, but his eyes were a wild shriek of pain.

The other High Lord's face was close to his, and Amarantha's orders murmured into the back of his mind. _You're going to enjoy this. _He felt himself stir, just a little, towards arousal, a sudden rush of blood between his legs, as Rhysand closed the shackles around his wrists.. He fought it back with a snarl of disgust.

Rhysand's eyes dropped, taking in the situation _much more slowly _than Tamlin thought strictly necessary, then drifted back up to meet his. "My beauty truly _must _be legendary," Rhysand smirked, the expression emptier than ever. "I told you she ensures that you enjoy it."

When Tamlin's furious eyes met his, the smirk gradually faded. Tamlin saw, for perhaps the first time in centuries, Rhysand making a genuine and unprotected expression. _Worry for me. _He wished just as quickly that he hadn't. Rhys leaned in, whispering into Tamlin's ear. "She hears everything. Learn to keep even your thoughts down. Just survive. If there's anything I know in the Night Court, it's ambition and scheming. You'll get out from under her, one day. We both will."

The silver cuffs flashed suddenly blue, and then the light faded again. They were molded expertly perfectly, to the size and shape of his wrists. Where the silver touched skin, he felt cold as ice. Tamlin understood snares in a whole new way. "She's dead, Rhys. This is all I am, now. There isn't any way out."

Rhysand gave him that same smug smile. "Not with _that_ attitude, there isn't. I'll tell her you're ready."

"Do you have to _announce_ it, Nightmare?" Tamlin snapped. "I don't see why I have to be an animal on display-"

"That's what you _are_," Rhysand drawled, the protective sneer back on in a flash. His wings ruffled, almost. Like an animal going into a defensive crouch, Tamlin thought. "You _are _her animal. _Her_ victory._ Her_ display." He stood back up, brushing imaginary dust off one dark sleeve. He shouldn't be so pale, Tamlin thought. Fifty years of darkness would do that. He blinked, looking down at the shirt, baldric, and pants. At the boots. He thought of how Feyre would have considered the cost of each piece of fabric.

"I'm still wearing my-"

"She likes to cut them off," Rhysand snapped at him, pointing off to the side. Tamlin, knowing even as he did so that it was a mistake, looked. On a side table next to the bed lay yet another thing he'd been too distracted to notice. A double-ended dagger lay on the table. One end was a shimmering, sharpened silver. There was a space in the middle that seemed to be iron or some other, lesser metal. It had a grip carved into it. The other, where the hilt would normally be, was simple wood, narrowed and sharpened to a deadly point.

Tamlin knew ash when he saw it.

Rhysand stalked away. When the door slammed behind the High Lord of the Court of Night, Tamlin was left alone, chained to her bed, feeling his body working hard to betray him.

He could see himself in the great mirror that hung over her vanity, dimly through the veil, and quickly looked away. As he shifted in the bed, trying to get into a position that did less to pull the fabric of his pants so tightly over the maddening, stubbornly developing arousal he was trying to ignore, the throbbing that grew each time he moved his wrists or tried to shift position or, Cauldron forbid, actually _thought _about Rhysand chaining him to the wall above the bed (_how does she control even this, with an order?_), some flicker of reflected light caught his eye above him. He looked up.

The entire top of the bed, on the inside, was one large piece of mirrored glass.


	2. Chapter 2

Tamlin sat next to Amarantha's black throne, in his own, slightly lesser padded black chair, staring ahead with careful disinterest. There was a goblet of wine in his hand, although he had yet to take a sip. Or eat a bite. Every time he looked at the banquet tables, his stomach turned until it took every bit of strength not to simply vomit all over the Court.

For two weeks, he'd been called to chambers each night. For two weeks, he was used like a plaything and left, chained, to catch dreamless sleep when and where he could. For two weeks, he had lived in hell.

New black clothes had been folded next to him when he woke up each day, curled in the corner of her bed like a child after a bad dream. She'd be long gone, each time, only a kiss of her scent remained on his skin. He'd bathed in the warmed water provided by servants whose eyes he could not meet, scrubbed himself raw, then dressed in the outfit she'd left for him in a fog of nausea and disgust.

Each night, he sat by her side, with a look of what he hoped was utter and total disinterest and apathy. The Court beheld him as a spectacle but also a cautionary tale. A warning of what happened when you tried to stand up against Amarantha, the Never-Fading-Flower, whose vengeance knew no ending. Who could wait for decades to get what she wanted.

Two weeks, but it had seemed a year. _What would a year seem like?_ He couldn't bear the thought. Instead, he tried to take Rhysand's advice, think of it only one night at a time. Bear it, get through this single night, and start over in the morning. He worried over his Court, but never voiced it. He couldn't take the risk that she would decide it was more fun to toy with him through the destruction of his people than to keep cutting him to ribbons every night.

Most of his wounds had healed. Maybe. Each time it felt like days, in her bed. Chained to wall (_don't think about that, her orders hold, you'll only get hard again_), at her mercy. She'd used the ash end of the blade only on his face, his arms, around his neck; the places she wanted to be sure would be seen. The iron had done the rest, wounds he could heal with a thought. The ash blade, though, was a delicate instrument of cruelty indeed. A careful, elegant array of spirals, whorls, and circles that she'd carved out of him continued to bleed, on occasion, around his Adam's apple, the pattern curving down to his collarbone and disappearing into his shirt.

Tamlin dared anyone to say a damn thing about it. So far, no one had.

He had his own crown, again a lesser echo of Amarantha's jagged spikes. It felt more like a collar. Rhysand lounged somewhere in the shadows behind them, more lurking than anything else. He'd been tense all morning, snapping at servants and courtiers alike, while Tamlin had pretended not to notice. It couldn't be_ jealousy_; he'd felt the relief coming off Rhys and in waves, at first, at a night not spent with Amarantha. So what had Rhysand upset enough to break his carefully controlled composure?

Amarantha was listening to the petition from an emissary of the Autumn Court, her red-painted fingernails tapping on the arm of her throne idly. Some petition for more supplies sent from one place to another, calling on her favor, declaring themselves her allies. Tamlin swallowed, thickly. He didn't hear a word the man said, he couldn't look away from her fingernails. The color exactly matched the blood she'd drawn from him last night.

_Amarantha had forced him to lick his own blood off her breasts as she rode him, delighting in the mix of guttural, agonizing groans and moans she had eventually drawn from his bleeding throat. It was only when he began, finally, to weep that she came, with a peal of laughter that he could still hear, the vision of her grinding herself down on him and forcing him to the edge, even as he could not stop the tears. There had been some time, he thought, time when he wept openly and she was gone. Then she returned, for another round. Again and again. Night after night. He could still see her when he closed his eyes-_

There was a hand on his shoulder. Tamlin's eyes snapped open. He hadn't even known he had closed them. It was Rhysand, of course, that lazy smile fixed on his face.

"Try to blink less, Spring," he murmured into Tamlin's ear. "Letting your eyes close can be dangerous, here." Even with the sneering tone, Tamlin understood it was meant to help. He inclined his chin, only slightly, to show he'd heard.

The emissary of the Autumn Court bowed low to the ground as he was dismissed. Amarantha's eyes scanned the crowd. She was still luxuriating in her victory over him, she preened like a cat licking cream.

"The High Queen's Court will hear any other petitions we have before us today."

Kallias stepped forward. Tamlin felt his eyebrows raise in surprise and fought to bring back the empty, soulless mask. How strange to miss his gold and green masquerade disguise already. At least his thoughts had been easier to hide, then.

_Feyre would be so ashamed of him, how he had writhed at Amarantha's every whispered suggestion, forcing himself deeper into her at every urging. _Tamlin swallowed, a pricking pain in his neck reminding him of his wounds. Was this what being human in the world of the High Fae was like? He was outmatched. He had been outwitted.

Out-hunted, as it were.

"The Winter Court has one grievance we would bring before you," Kallias's voice was clipped and cold, his glacier eyes focused entirely on Amarantha as he inclined his head and shoulder in the barest hint of a bow.

"Lower," Amarantha purred.

"I beg your pardon?" Tamlin knew Kallias had heard her just fine. That surprisingly warm, smoldering rage in very cold eyes… He heard Rhysand shift from behind him. Now _this_ was interesting. _I will have to talk to Rhys about this._

"Kallias, that was barely a curtsy. Lower. Show some _respect._"

Kallias's jaw was tight as he narrowed his eyes and nodded, bowing as low as he could without actively kneeling. Tamlin saw a hint of frost as he breathed.

"Better. The Court's ears are open to your grievance."

"My Queen." Kallias kept his voice smooth. "My Court, as always, expresses our gratitude to you for your mercy in your dealings with us." His lied were cold, the vast weight of an iceberg, lurking under the water. No white-blond hair was out of place. Every detail on his outfit, a white shirt and pants with icy blue embroidery in an ancient language, was spotless and immaculate. "However, last night, after you… retired to your chambers," his eyes flicked to Tamlin, who stared back with the emptiest expression he could, "some of your representatives informed me they will be taking four more full regiments of my soldiers."

"Did they?" Amarantha drawled.

"I received the same demand," the High Lord of Dawn said, his shining brightness making a mockery of how filthy, and soiled, and _dark _Tamlin felt. Thesan never even looked in Tamlin's direction.

"As did I." That was Tarquin, the Summer Court's Lord, his voice louder than it needed to be, full of anger and hurt pride. _He was so young. _He'd never known the Court without Amarantha's rule, had he?

"He will need lessons in dishonesty," Rhysand murmured at Tamlin's shoulder. "He gives himself away with each blink of his eyes."

"So when will you speak to him?" Tamlin asked, barely even moving his lips. The other High Lords were speaking up, gathering together in front of the throne. They protested the forced acquisition of their soldiers, pleading weakness, the need to defend their borders. _Amarantha is the weakness, _Tamlin thought. She was the one infecting all the lands. She was the threat to their borders, and she controlled them all.

"What makes you think I intend to?" Rhysand has a smile in his voice.

"If he needs to learn how to be a bastard who does nothing but deceive and lie, who better to teach him?"

Rhysand actually laughed, at that, an unusual sound. Amarantha's head snapped in his direction and he bowed, slightly, in apology, holding his posture until she looked away, back to smile, sneer really, at the High Lords assembled before her. Only five. Well, four and the emissary for the Autumn Lord. Lucien's father had been... mysteriously absent, since Tamlin was brought back here. Not that he should force himself here if he weren't directly ordered, but to have the other four here...

With Rhysand and Tamlin _both _at her mercy, the High Lords were less and less able to stand against her and they knew it. Still, they pushed back, how they could. Some with diplomatic objections. Some with a very noted absence.

"I have indeed sent word to send four full regiments of your best, to each and every Court," Amarantha tilted her head back, imperious. "We are preparing for _war_, gentlemen."

"Except _his_ Court," The Autumn emissary snapped, gesturing at Rhysand where he lounged, one arm resting lightly on the back of Tamlin's throne, looking like nothing so much as Tamlin's malevolent shadow. "_He _is spared."

"Were you in his place, you would not say he was spared," Amarantha purred. The Autumn emissary looked away. "But I see your point, and I agree."

The Lords shifted uneasily, suspicious. "You... agree?" Kallias asked. His eyes met Tamlin's, and Tamlin was shocked to see no judgement there.

Amarantha's answering smile was vicious. "We will demand four regiments from the Court of Night, as well."

"My Queen-" Rhysand protested, standing up straight. Tamlin cleared his throat, a warning, but it went unheeded. "We had an agreement-"

"I am altering it. You will send word to your people immediately."

"Amarantha... my queen...Now that Tamlin stands by your side," Rhysand said, and Tamlin ground his teeth together so hard he was sure Rhysand could hear it. "Perhaps, my Queen, our arrangement could be… sufficiently altered as to end it. I would gladly send four regiments in exchange for... your leave that I go home."

For him to ask before the whole Court… it took real effort for Tamlin to sit still, stay empty, not make a sound or even try to look back to see what Rhysand's face looked like.

_He didn't know, then. It never occurred to him that she means to have us as a set._

Amarantha swept herself to her feet, arms crossed before her. There was a smile in her eyes, but her face was dark and furious. "Rhysand, are you saying you no longer desire me? After all we've had together?"

"Of course I do, my merry Midsummer." Rhysand's voice was the embodiment of a slither, as he dropped his own words to a purr, with the whole of the Court silent and watchful, wondering how this would go. "I simply… miss home, and I thought… Perhaps we could part ways as Queen and loyal subject." Tamlin thought he heard the soft clink of coins, from somewhere down in the crowd. Faeries did love a good wager.

_Will she tear his head off of his shoulders for daring to ask, or will she do something even worse?_

"Your Majesty," Tamlin spoke up. He couldn't quite manage Rhysand's careless drawl, instead his words came out clipped and forced. He had never been good at words. That had been Lucien's job. And he wanted Lucien to stay far, far away from here, to have the only person alive he gave a damn about at least not have to see him so reduced. "I was… also under the impression that this would be the end of Rhysand's time in the Court Under the Mountain. Perhaps you should send him home, and then you will only have to concern yourself with me." He heard Rhysand's surprised intake of breath, but kept his eyes focused entirely on the look of amusement on Amarantha's twisted, beautiful face.

"Want me all to yourself, suddenly?" The Court laughed, mostly subdued, but some real, sincere jeering came from the Autumn Court's area, from the Attor that lurked always on her left, as Tamlin was forced to sit at her right. Lucien's brothers, he thought, were the laughter from the crowd. They'd always hated him, and hated Tamlin for giving him sanctuary. "Well, your impression is wrong. Rhysand, you know better than to mince words with an expert. The arrangement ends at my command and mine alone." Rhysand's mouth became a thin, angry line, but he nodded, slowly. "You will send word. Tell them that if your lands send us _eight _regiments instead of four, I will let you _visit _with them for a fortnight. You see that I am a merciful queen, don't you?"

Rhysand bowed, his own expression guarded now. He'd realized his mistake, if a moment too late. "We'll see how much they want to see you, shall we?" Her eyes flicked between them, something calculating that Tamlin did not want to see.

_She'd had that look on her last night, as she had moved towards him, crossing the space of her room with the slowest footsteps. Calculating. Thoughtful. Before she'd used the pull cord to sweep up the starlit veil. Before she'd picked up the knife._

"All Lords will will send four regiments, whether they can spare them or no. As your High Queen, I will do the protecting, and your armies are mine. Besides, I think we all know who the superior general is, here." She laughed, looking down at Jurian's eye, where it swiveled on her finger. "Don't you think so, my old friend? I certainly bested you."

The eye went suddenly still in response.

"Send word to Lucien in the Spring Court," She told the Attor, who hovered, ever-watchful and ready to serve, at her other side. It nodded and simply drifted away. "The High Lords have made their point. Let no land be spared."

Tamlin closed his eyes, thinking of Lucien's unmasked face, of him eating by himself at the grand dining table, running the lands. Seeing that the proper rites were fulfilled, that the Court, if in disarray, did not lose itself entirely. Of what it would mean to try to muster four regiments from the Spring Court's depleted numbers. It would be a hard sacrifice, to be sure. Although at least the Queen did not directly send her minions to torment the Court any longer.

_The knife over his throat, the way that ash felt like rot blossoming under his skin everywhere it touched. Her soft voice shushing him, as she carved, whispering to him with a soft and loving voice to hold still for her. The whorls and spirals taking shape as he was at first silent, then grunted, then groaned, and finally screamed. _

_He wondered how much of the Court could hear the sound echoing in the halls. _

_Then, she looked down, tsking softly. "Have you lost your desire for our first time together, my love?" She whispered to him. That beautiful smile was on her face again, something true and pure and happy. Something like Feyre's smile. "I can fix that." Her free hand found its way down, trailing the bleeding wounds, smearing his blood across his chest and down to his unmarred stomach, tracing the lines of his pelvis-_

"Stop. Closing. Your. Eyes." Rhysand again. Tamlin forced them back open. The Court went on as usual, nobody had even noticed him, he assumed. Or maybe he looked like he was simply falling asleep. After all, he'd hardly slept last night, only a couple of hours after she left him.

"I'm trying," Tamlin muttered. "Everytime I do, I-"

"I know what you see. I've been there, remember? It won't do any good to think about it. Just keep going. The Lords' protest today tells me there might be hope yet, even without your human girl."

Grief, quickly becoming his closest friend, clawed at his throat. He swallowed it back. How had he come to love her, so quickly? Her fire and the fight in her, the way she could hunt as well as he. Still, dead in the end, torn limb from limb. They'd been hard-pressed, the servants, to gather her back together. He'd been mad with his rage, even as Amarantha had slipped away, promising to return for him. When she'd sent the letter, offering him one last bright spot for his Court, and damnation for himself.

"I could use some hope," Tamlin said, face flat and expressionless. Beside him, just out of earshot, Amarantha laughed at some courtier's joke, and the court hurried to laugh with her.

"Ha. Try living here for fifty years, Tam. You'll learn a lot about finding hope in hard places. I intend to scheme my way out of this if it kills me."

"Why are you telling me this? Maybe I want her to like me. I could take this information to her now, and she'd have you chained by your wings to hang from the walls, let us throw daggers at you for sport."

Rhysand only laughed, quieter this time, barely an exhalation. "Because you're trapped here with me. You hate her and everything she's done to you. You'd rather escape with one old enemy than lie underneath a different one."

"You really thought she'd let you go, didn't you." It wasn't a question.

Rhysand looked away, but did not move. He was lounging over Tamlin's throne again, looking for all the world as if he were trying to intimidate him, but his voice was quiet when he spoke. "She said she would. A thousand nights in her bed, three thousand, she said once she had you to take my place-"

"She lies."

"Yes. I should have known better. I so rarely make mistakes. Please try to enjoy having witnessed one." He smiled at Tamlin, really smiled _at _him, and Tamlin was reminded of their friendship, of the Rhys he'd spent time with a long time ago. "You may never see its like again."

Amarantha looked over at them again, as she spoke to someone Tamlin did not recognize. There was an expression on her face that Tamlin could not read, but that he knew nonetheless he did not like.

* * *

"Send her her soldiers," Lucien said, world-weary, his forehead resting in one hand as he leaned over the grand dining table, picking at food he could barely stomach. He still hadn't quite gotten over the feel of the fresh air on his skin where his mask had lain for so long, and he had ordered every window open.

Rosehall did not exactly look abandoned, but it seemed already as though it might soon be. Once Tamlin had gone, truly _gone, _the bricks had begun to fade into age, crumbling a little if pushed on too hard. The foundations seemed to tilt, slightly, unsettlingly, depending on what room you were in. The walls seemed to need a fresh coat of paint.

In short, it _looked _like a once-great manor abandoned decades ago, and Tamlin had been gone hardly any time at all. What they had now was holding, only barely, with the pure strength of Lucien's will. He didn't even exert the extra effort to light the candles. He had them lit by servant, by hand. He had never been meant to act as a High Lord, and what power he had strained under the exertion.

"I will let the Attor know you acquiesce," The servant mumbled, bowing and then exiting as quickly as he could. Lucien waved him off without looking up. His auburn hair hung lank, half-combed, his unusual vanity discarded. He might even be wearing yesterday's clothes. He genuinely couldn't remember, and didn't care.

"Whatever else do we do, these days?" Lucien muttered, chewing chicken he couldn't seem to taste, swallowing it with great effort. He took a drink of wine, thinking.

All he did these days was think. He couldn't bear to stay outside, too long. The woods had gone dark and wild and dangerous, full of twisting, thorny vines that tore your clothing to shreds. The trees' song was one of mourning, now. The crops grew, but the farmers worried uneasily about the monsters lurking at the edges of their fields.

Everyone was safe, so long as they stayed within the villages, within the manor grounds. But no one was safe outside of them. Amarantha had taken the woods for her own. Faeries who stepped too far into them were found slaughtered or never found at all. Or even more occasionally, they reappeared from the tunnels into the Court Under the Mountain, shackled and with warnings fixed to their backs.

The Suriel had told him what he'd need to do, but he wasn't sure where to begin. He'd have to contact the other High Lords, get each and every one to agree to his plan without any of them simply handing information over to Amarantha at the first opportunity. He'd need to find a relic older than time, as old as the Cauldron itself. He'd need the spell that controlled it. He'd need blood from Illyrians, High Fae, and mortals altogether. He needed an ash arrow; he might have to truck with mortals to get that, without leaving here long enough for Amarantha to wonder why. He'd need her body - well, that he already had, preserved with magic, lying in state in the mausoleum in the back gardens. Stitched back together. He'd need to find an ancient creature, and beg it for a mercy none of them deserved.

Finally, once the rest of it was together, he would need to convince Tamlin that it was the right thing to do, and even Lucien wasn't entirely sure. It would save his friend, his High Lord, but at a cost that was frightening if he allowed himself to think on it too long.

He'd need so much to save Tamlin.

He simply did not know where to start.

* * *

Tamlin had lost himself in the music, allowing the sound of the musicians to soothe the jagged edges of his nerves. Eventually, he'd even begun to really enjoy it. Tonight it was not the warped, off-key Spring Court melodies, but twisting, subtle harmonies that blended and separated into a series of minor key changes. It reminded him of twilight, of the sound the stars might make as you flew through them.

_Rhysand's music, _he thought. _This is the music of the Night Court. _

He had spent the day speaking as little as possible. Amarantha had traipsed him around to show him off a time or two, and he had made small talk with a blank face, only when ordered. He hoped even his green-gold eyes were flat. Most courtiers were uneasy around him, and he used that to his advantage. Mostly, though, he struggled to find the words, and so he was silent.

Rhysand came and went, doing whatever it was Rhysand did. He could no longer leave the mountain, Tamlin knew that. Even for errands. He was somewhere in Under the Mountain, maybe just in his rooms. Tamlin had none, not yet; he knew he'd be back in Amarantha's bed tonight.

Rhysand was well and truly trapped, Tamlin thought. Amarantha no longer needed him to threaten the Spring Court, as it was wholly under her sway. Tamlin's people belonged to her now, even if she'd granted the mercy of living their lives out in his lands. She need only send messengers and her will would be done. Rhysand was a caged bird, to her. Or bat, he thought, thinking of Rhysand's rarely-shown wings.

He now lounged alone in his chair, not even concerned about where Amarantha had gone. It was late, and he was more than a little drunk. The last of the courtiers were beginning to file out, to head back to their lands or their rooms here. He could feel the stinging of his wounds and reached up to touch one sensitive spot, hissing softly.

"Do you like the music, my love?" He jumped, startled to find Amarantha standing next to him. Her smell enveloped him once again and he only stared at her, stone-faced.

"Come," She commanded, and his body obeyed. He didn't even try to fight the compulsion this time. He stood and followed her as she took her leave, ignoring the remaining courtiers who parted before her, the way the musicians played a quick, soft tune as she exited.

"Don't worry," She said as they walked, as bubbly as a maiden. "I won't cut you up tonight. We want them to _scar_, not get infected."

"You want them to scar?" He asked before he caught himself, cursing inwardly. He had meant to give her only silence and stone.

"Of course. They mark you as mine. Well and truly mine." She paused, to touch his chin with her fingertips, forcing him to look down at her. He kept his face empty, but it took immense effort. "I think you need another lesson in humility, High Lord."

"You yourself said I am no Lord, now," Tamlin pointed out. Rhysand would be proud of that, he thought. He rarely had a comeback so quickly come to mind.

"I don't think you believe me, yet. But you will." She turned away and led him the rest of the way to her rooms. Rhysand stood outside of it, leaning against the wall with one shoulder, his arms crossed in front of him. Tamlin stopped where he stood, frowning, looking between the two of them.

"What is this?"

"Humility," Amarantha breathed, her cheeks flushed with desire. "For the both of you." She gestured imperiously, and Rhysand opened the door for her. She walked in, Tamlin drifting in behind her. Rhysand, the last, shut the door behind them. His own expression was distant, the smile fixed on his face, his violent eyes just slightly dimmed.

"What do you think, darling?" Amarantha asked, turning to fix Tamlin with her wide eyes. The sneering bitterness was in every pore. He wondered how he could ever have thought she was beautiful. "Should we chain you to the bed again? You enjoyed it _so much_ last night."

At the mere thought, he felt himself stirring again, his pants suddenly too tight, aware of every bit of the silken fabric touching his skin. He shifted, uncomfortably, trying to think of the music he'd been listening to, or Feyre's eyes, anything but the shackles around his wrists. The music of the Night Court-

"No," Amarantha whispered. "I think I know what will be worse for you." She turned to Rhysand, who looked back at her as though she were a very interesting chicken. Tamlin could see his jaw working, though, despite the empty curiosity in his gaze.

"Rhys, my love," Amarantha murmured, reaching up to touch the side of his face. Rhysand looked back down at her, blank. "_I'm_ not going to hurt him, tonight." Tamlin felt his shoulders sag, just a little, in relief, but when he realized that Rhysand actually looked _worried_, suddenly, he felt the fear again.

"_You_ are. After all, it always hurts the first time, doesn't it?" She turned to look at Tamlin, and smiled. He thought he saw the maw of a great wild beast in that smile, fangs that would devour him whole.

Rhysand shook his head, and Tamlin was backing away. "No." His hand was on the doorknob, he went to turn it and run-

"Drop your hands," Amarantha ordered. Tamlin's hand dropped automatically. His head was a fog of fear, and he couldn't think, wasn't sure what to do.

"Amarantha, absolutely not," He said in a voice that was tightly controlled. "I… I will not."

"Hm." She crooked an eyebrow. "You will. You're going to enjoy it, too."

She smiled to herself, dragging a chair over by the bed, settling herself lazily into it. In a snap, her clothing was gone, and Tamlin watched her recline, naked, one leg thrown over the arm of the chair, the chill of the air making it clear how excited she was. "Rhysand. You know what to do."

"Do you?" Tamlin asked his old enemy and older friend, looking over at Rhysand in a panic.

Rhysand only smiled at him. There was an apology in the smile, one he dared not speak. "I know everything the lady wants me to know," He murmured. He stepped forward, where Tamlin stood with his back against the door. He tried to reach for the doorknob, but his hand simply wouldn't move. It hung limp at his side.

Rhys, stepping up to him, leaned in to whisper into his ear. "You're going to enjoy it either way. Just get through it. Keep your head held high. Remember that your body is not your own." The feel of his breath made the hair on Tamlin's neck stand up, and he had to bite back a whimper. _Already? It took longer than this when he chained me up last night- No. Don't think about it. _Too late. He was already picturing it, Rhysand's face just this close to him as his hands had pushed Tamlin's back up into the silver cuffs and snapped the shut. Amarantha's hateful command and his traitor's body did the rest.

Rhysand's hand touched his face, his jaw, and those violet eyes locked on his as the fingers trailed the whorls and spirals she'd cut into his face. There was a hiss, and a snap, and Tamlin was as naked as Amarantha, anything he'd hope to hide utterly exposed. Rhysand, however, remained fully dressed.

"Magnificent," Amarantha murmured, from her chair. Tamlin could have fantasized for a hundred years on the different ways he would rip her throat out once he had his powers back. "Oh, Tamlin." The command in her voice was unmistakable. "You're going to writhe for him every time he touches you. I want your cries to echo down the halls until someone thinks I have _murdered you._"

"Don't fight it," Rhysand whispered and kissed his neck, trailing his mouth down to the point where Tamlin's neck and shoulder met. After a moment, he bit, and Tamlin moaned audibly, frozen against the door. "She wants you to fight," Rhys mumbled into his neck, sucking hard. Tamlin's knees turned to liquid and he would have fallen if Rhysand had not hooked an arm behind his back to hold him up. "Don't give the fight to her. She'll make me hurt you. I don't want to hurt you."

He could have laughed, to have his old enemy, who had plotted against him for decades, say something like that. He wanted Rhysand to speak like this, mouth against his skin, lips moving up to the spot where his pulse beat in his neck, forever. He wanted to tear his mouth away and kill him, rip his throat out, demand vengeance for being made so weak. Rhysand's hand continued its slow drift over his collarbone, onto his chest, down his stomach, pausing to gently grip one hip, finally closing around-

"Nnnngh," Tamlin groaned, unwillingly feeling his hips buck into Rhysand's hand.

"Rhys, darling, you're too far away," Amarantha drawled. Her voice was husky. "Bring him to the bed. Let me watch you. It's no good if I can't see his face."

"Of course, my lady," Rhysand murmured. "One moment." He pressed his mouth to Tamlin's, surprisingly soft, his hand rhythmically squeezing and slowly pumping, until Tamlin's whimpers, muffled as their mouths met, were higher-pitched than ever. His tongue darted in and out, and Tamlin couldn't find it in him to resist. "Don't kill me for this," Rhysand said, with a wicked smile. "At least I'm really very good at it."

He let go, suddenly, and Tamlin panted, fell back against the door. His body wanted to betray him with everything in this thrice-damned Court. He'd be surprised if he weren't ordered to fuck the Attor one of these days. _By the Cauldron, she could make me do that. She could make me _like _it. _

"Tamlin," Amarantha ordered. Her own hands were very, very busy, and he was disgusted to be the reason. He was whoring himself out on her command, the High Lord of the Spring Court, reduced like an unwilling mortal. "Get on the bed."

"No," he whispered, but his body was already moving. Rhysand just behind him, shedding his own clothing without a thought, his eyes intently focused on Tamlin's face, and that alone. The bed as always gave, just a little, underneath him. He'd barely sat down, red-faced, when Rhysand shoved him hard, pushing him onto his back. "Do you want me to chain you?" He asked, in a whisper. The question was infuriating, until Tamlin realized what the question really was.

_Do you want to be able to say you fought back?_

He saw himself in the mirror, his face flushed with arousal, his short hair cut to her specifications. The slave on the bed, plaything of a High Lord and an imposter Queen. He closed his eyes, turning his face away, rather than give his answer. He heard Rhysand's exhale, and his hand on his jaw, slowly turning it back. A tear ran out of Tamlin's eye, darkening a spot on the silk sheets behind his head.

"None of that," Rhysand whispered, licking at his tear tracks, making Tamlin shudder. "Not this time. I wish I could tell you-"

"Tell me what?" Tamlin's mouth barely moved.

There was a silence, as Rhysand's hands roamed. Tamlin felt like a fiddle, his hips rising to meet Rhysand's grip, his skin singing a thousand notes and melodies. He could not stop the noises he made, even as Amarantha's voice joined his. Even knowing Amarantha was watching, that this was at her command, even hearing her own breathing go ragged, knowing what she was doing while she watched them…

"Later," Rhysand murmured, kissing him again. Tamlin thought of the maidens during the Great Rite, the way they'd twisted at his every touch, the way he knew _exactly_ where to touch them. He was learning a lot about what the other inhabitants of his own lands had felt like around him. "Later, Spring."

The next kiss went on and on until he nearly burned for air, but at the same time he couldn't stop himself from lifting his own hands to grab Rhysand's face and bring him back after the slightest, gasping breath. Amarantha's order to _enjoy this _made his body sing, but… there was more than that, wasn't there?

Somewhere deep down, in the part of him he'd buried since his family's deaths, in the younger version of him that had been Rhysand's friend. Deep, deep down, he wanted-

Rhysand slid his hand around to grip Tamlin by the back of his knee, slowly pushing it up against his chest. His other hand was still hard at work, and Tamlin felt like a rutting animal, unable to stop himself from thrusting harder into his hand, hips bucking, moaning loud.

"Tell me how good I was tomorrow," Rhysand said with a sly smile. "I don't think you'll remember how to speak for much longer tonight."


	3. Chapter 3

The humiliation had not been in the sex at all. He'd thought it would be, that the humiliating part would be that he had been played like a fiddle at her command, and by an enemy he had vowed to kill, but her command to enjoy every touch had allowed him to simply… leave, to go deep within himself and watch, as if from afar, as Rhysand finally all but collapsed on top of him, the two bound together in a tangle of limbs and sweat.

Amarantha finished herself off, ordered them not to move. She left, for a while. Tamlin tried to stay in that place far away, the part of himself that felt nothing, heard nothing, lived somewhere else.

When she returned, she climbed up into the bed with them, settling herself in against the pillows. She had a narrow box, about the length of her forearm, with her. As she went to open the box, she smiled and looked at the two of them.

Rhysand stared her down, his violet eyes empty.

"Again," Amarantha said, quietly.

* * *

Three times. Twice, she watched them finish, finished herself, waited a few minutes, and then ordered Rhysand to resume. Each time, she ordered Rhysand to make it last longer, to take his time. It must be early morning by now.

Three times, Rhysand had done as commanded. The third time, it was obvious to them all that Tamlin and Rhysand were at their limit. Or it would have been, if Tamlin were not so out of his mind that he seemed barely aware of where he was.

"Try to remember I didn't want to do that," Rhysand whispered, for him and him alone, sometime midway through the second time. "Then imagine how good I am when I'm willing." Tamlin had clearly fought the urge to laugh, even through his desperate desire. The pain of the ash cuts must have faded, absolutely overwhelmed by Rhysand's hands and mouth...

Tamlin seemed so far away from himself or any hint of pride, he didn't even hear Amarantha's laughter. When Rhysand, muscles spent and shaking, tried to push himself up, she commanded him to lay back down. He lowered himself back onto Tamlin's body slowly, violet eyes taking in Amarantha's expression with a careful consideration.

Amarantha's own gaze flashed with fierce joy. "I just wanted a last look at you. What would you do if I ordered you to go again?" She said, her voice husky, as she drew her hand across herself again..

Rhysand looked slowly down at Tamlin, whose broad hunter's chest was still rising and falling quickly, the sheen of sweat on his forehead. His eyes were open, but empty, staring off at the mirrored ceiling on the bed. _Had he been watching himself? _"I would certainly be duty-bound to try, my Lady," he replied, silently castigating himself for how out-of-breath he sounded, how his usually even voice trembled. "However, I am not sure that spirit and body would… agree on my capabilities, so to speak."

"Hm," She said thoughtfully. "He's going to hurt, later on." The thought clearly came as a great delight to her.

"Yes," Rhysand replied. Just the one word. Tamlin shifted beneath him, and Rhysand had to admit, the feeling was pleasant. Not that Tamlin was the first man he'd been ordered to bed. Certainly the noblest, he thought, looking at that finely crafted face, the pointed ears and high cheekbones, the green eyes flecked with gold. The others had been Amarantha's attempts to humiliate him, forcing him into bed with lesser fae. Even a mortal once. This, though...

Amarantha laughed as she slid herself out of bed, where she had been watching them. "Get my whore up, Rhys."

Rhysand took his time, sliding slowly off of Tamlin, giving his legs time to regain some strength. When he stood, he did not stumble. Overused muscles in his calves screamed at him, but he retained his casual, effortless grace.

"I suppose he's more your whore than mine, now," Amarantha said thoughtfully.

Rhysand only closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning to look at the vanity, bringing his usual clothing on with a quick flick of his chin, looking himself over. It gave him something to do with his eyes. "He gave himself to _you_, to save his court. His friend… friends." He said, quietly. That, he understood. "My Queen, you said so many times that when _he _came to you, to your bed, that you would…"

"Let you go?" She tilted her head up at him, her tumble of bright red hair causing his stomach to turn. Her lipstick had smeared at some point, giving her a garishly exaggerated smile. "So you're bringing that up again. Did you truly think so, Rhysand?"

Rhysand frowned. "Your interest was in punishing my father, my Court. Not… me. It's been fifty years."

"I lied to you," she purred. "You are ambitious, and scheming. Different. You hide things. You plot my demise with every kiss. It intrigues me, and I love that I can take something like you and ensure that you never fly again. I will _never _let you go, Rhysand. I will kill you on the day you bore me more than entertain. I'll tear your wings off and make you dance until you die. Your Court is in my thrall. Your power a shadow of itself. You cannot raise a hand against me. I suggest you ensure that you… remain interesting."

"That doesn't exactly give me incentive to be loyal to you," he pointed out, feeling a moment of satisfaction that he did not rise to her bait, get angry and make a mistake. _Unlike _some _High Fae who just fucked into oblivion on the bed..._

Amarantha let out a peal of laughter, like the ringing of bells. Tamlin began to shift back to himself, wincing and groaning as he tried to roll over. The pain he must be in, Rhys thought with some sympathy. He didn't feel it all yet. Soon enough, he would.

"Loyalty? You're a snake! You must think me born mortal," Amarantha continued to laugh. "You _already _plot against me! Do you think I don't _know?!_" She continued to laugh, her hair tumbling down over her breasts as she sat, looking Tamlin over with hunger. The erstwhile High Lord of the Court of Spring pushed himself up, wincing. He did not look at her, but made the mistake of catching sight of himself in the mirror. His face turned bright red. _He must be starting to remember the past few hours. Or discovering what filth we buried ourselves in. Poor sot. "My_ spies - my ears and eyes - are everywhere, Rhys, my love. They are closer to you than your shadow."

Rhys only smirked, settling his clothing until it laid perfectly on him, as always. "Whatever you say, my Queen. I have served you well." Inside, he raged. He had dreamed of freedom for _fifty years._ And she laughed at him for it.

Rhysand was many things, but he must have become a desperate creature indeed to become _naive._

"Indeed you have. He goes to your room."

Rhysand paused, tilting his head, trying to guess at her game. "I have only one bed, my Lady."

She smiled, a depraved, desirous look that even Rhysand could not meet for long. "Learn to share."

He frowned at her. _What are you trying to do, Amarantha? _There had to be some plot here, some scheme he could not quite understand…

Tamlin had pushed himself out of the bed, gingerly. When he tried to stand, he stumbled awkwardly sideways, and would have collapsed to the floor entirely if Rhys had not caught him with one hand before he could stop himself. _Shit. I should have let him fall._

Amarantha's smile widened. "My Tamlin. My love. My slave. Did you enjoy last night?"

Tamlin's stone face looked resolutely towards the ground. He did not, however, let go of Rhysand's arm. His powerful physique was still bathed in sweat, and… other things. Some of the unhealed wounds, the spirals she'd carved in, were bleeding again. In other spots, the blood was dried, smeared. If he thought too long, he would think about how some of that blood was smeared on his own face, his own chest. Rhysand fought the urge to lick Tamlin's neck clean, and then shuddered.

Her doing, somehow. Some lingering effect of her commands.

Amarantha regarded the two of them, silent for a long moment. "I could set you two on each other all day long," she said dreamily. "Right in the middle of my Court. Bet on who crests first. Like mortals we drug for our sport. Remember when we did that? By the Cauldron, we watched for nearly three days before their bodies gave out. I made a lot of money on that wager… Ooooh, I'd let your _Courts_ watch you. I'd invite Lucien here for that, no doubt your pet fox would _thrill _to see his master's_-_"

"May you rot in all imaginable Hells," Tamlin hissed at her, green-gold eyes flashing with rage. "If I could, I'd kill you by flaying you alive, you insufferable bitch. I'd make it take _days._"

She smiled, pleased. Rhys swore internally. Tamlin's temper always led him right into her snare. Some legendary hunter he was. Never could stop to think like prey...

"To your room, Rhys my darling," she preened. "I need a rest after all that fun, don't you?" When he nodded, she raised one hand, delicate red-tipped fingers. How did a general have such delicate hands? "You will not dress, Tamlin. You will not clean yourself until you bathe in Rhys's room. You will heal no wounds, not until you next see me may you heal a single scratch."

Tamlin's head snapped up at that, even as he flushed with rage and… _yes, that would be shame, _Rhys thought. He wondered what it was like, to still have any. "I'm to walk the halls naked? Like _this?!_"

She only smiled. "Yes. Consider your words more carefully next time. Rhysand, escort him. Slowly. Ensure he wears not a stitch from start to finish. You may… clean him, or whatever you want to do, when you arrive, so long as he is not healed. Then I suggest you get some rest. You'll be back in here tonight."

"My Lady," Rhysand said softly, "surely you could grant-"

"Quiet, before you walk naked, too. You'll both be back here tonight. After all, Rhys," she slid out of bed with catlike grace, slowly running her fingers up his chest. He ignored the feeling, narrowed eyes focusing on a spot on the wall. "Wouldn't you say it's your turn to do some cutting, to an old enemy? To cut, and hurt, and then to watch as I make him regret every wrong fucking choice he ever made? I'll make him apologize for your family, my love. I'll make him beg. Would you like to hear him beg?"

He swallowed. Reopening the wounds, of course. Ensuring they would scar. Marking Tamlin permanently. Making him do it, some attempt to ensure they would never stop hating each other. Torturing someone until they break. Her favorite game. _I will kill you on the day you bore me more than entertain. _He forced his usual smile onto his face. "Whatever my Lady wishes, as always."

"I know." She waved, more a slight shift of fingers, and they were dismissed.

Rhysand slid an arm around Tamlin, helping to hold him upright. The other man groaned at the ache as they walked across the room, face still red, eyes closed.

They were lucky.

It was still more night than morning, and only a few servants even spotted them, plus a single courtier, someone he vaguely recognized as belonging to the Court of Dawn. Servants gossip, of course, and courtiers worse.

They would tell anyone and everyone Tamlin had been seen naked and covered in the night's filth, helped limping to his room by a perfectly groomed Rhysand. Naked and spent, led into the High Lord of Night's chambers.

She certainly knew how to set a rumor to run. Thesan would know within an hour. The whole Court would be a-twitter by nightfall. His own Court would learn, soon enough. He closed his eyes, briefly, trying to imagine how he would explain this to Cassian.

Tamlin said nothing at all, through the whole walk down the hall, around the twists and turns. Rhysand wasn't even sure if he _saw _the servants, the member of the Dawn Court. His eyes had glazed over. Rhysand called the twins to him when he entered his room, and as their shadow forms took shape, he ignored the mild curiosity on their faces as he ordered a bath drawn.

"By the Cauldron," Tamlin muttered, collapsing into a chair. Rhysand made a mental note to have it cleaned. Better yet, burned and replaced. "Is this what your _life _is like?"

"It was," Rhysand said smoothly. "For a time. She is… worse, when everything is novel and new. She'll be calmer with time."

"I'll die if this keeps up that long," Tamlin muttered, and Rhysand fought back a laugh.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Tamlin furiously blushed, but Rhysand pretended not to see it. "i _did _tell you to tell me tomorrow how good I was, after all. And, well…"

Tamlin looked up at him, blearily. "Well what?"

"It's _tomorrow, _isn't it?"

Tamlin growled and picked a vase up, throwing it viciously towards his head. Rhysand ducked, gracefully, and laughed out loud as it smashed to bits against the wall. After a second, Tamlin gave a breathy chuckle, too.

The twins faded in, just to his left. "The bath is drawn, my Lord," they said in unison, before fading away again. Rhysand gestured to the doorway on the other side of his bed, which opened seemingly of its own accord. Inside, a glimpse of a low pool, set into a tiled floor, with steaming water in it.

"Shall we?"

Tamlin looked towards that bath hungrily, then back up at Rhysand. "With _you?"_

"You've done worse with me. Thrice." Tamlin blushed again, teeth gritted. "Besides, what's a bath between mortal enemies forced to fuck like rabbits in front of evil queens?"

This time, Tamlin's laugh was loud, and real, and Rhysand felt a wholly unlike him spike of accomplishment and… _pride_ in his heart. He'd set Tamlin at ease, at least a little.

The more worrying question was why he had even wanted to. He decided to think on that later.

He held his hand out and Tamlin took it, hissing in pain as he eased himself out of the chair and followed Rhys to the bathing room. His growing agony was evident as he could only shuffle, moving with care. As Tamlin lowered himself in, the hot water must have set every open wound aflame, but this time he made no sound at all. Instead, the two sat, on opposite sides, in silence. Eventually Tamlin seemed to come to some sort of decision, and slid his head under the water.

Rhysand waited for him to surface. Waited. Waited... "Tam?" Still nothing. Not even a bubble. "Tamlin?" With a growing sense of alarm, he leaned over and reached out for him-

Tamlin popped up, splashing him in the face. Rhysand sputtered, his careful dignity briefly forgotten.

Tamlin grinned at him, a boyish expression that took a century off his age in seconds. "Ha! You haven't fallen for that since…" His words faded, and so did his smile.

The two of them looked at each other, decades of loathing between them. Misunderstandings. Miscommunication. Threats and violence. Before that, friendship.

"Truce?" Rhysand asked, realizing it was something he truly wished for only after the word was out of his mouth.

Tamlin held out his hand. There were bruises on his wrists, from the shackles, from Rhysand's grip at one point, the second time last night. This morning. Whenever it was. "Truce," he said, firmly.

They shook hands, and fell into companionable silence.

Exhaustion was a shadow on Tamlin's face by the time they had dried and dressed. A clean, fresh set of black clothes was folded on a chair. Rhysand watched him dress himself, even as his fingers trembled so badly he could hardly do up the buttons, and collapse into Rhys's own bed, not even putting up a paltry protest for show.

The pillow he laid on would be damp from his wet hair, later. The blond seemed almost brown, when it was wet. _He must be truly tired._

Rhysand settled himself into his bed as far away from Tamlin as he could get, lying on his side, staring into the space where he imagined a window would be if he weren't trapped down here in hell.

_I will never let you go, _Amarantha's voice rang, unwanted, in his mind.

Still.

Hell could be worse than having Tamlin, he thought as he slid himself into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Lucien decided to try the Summer Court, first.

He left instructions with some of the sentries, and what soldiers remained after Amarantha had taken most of the regiments to serve her, as part of her 'Prythian Army'. What war she was planning, what invasion she intended to defend against, was beyond him. The Hybern King had yet to threaten them directly, and mortals were little better than rabbits throwing themselves into snares. He hated to send the soldiers away, to force them to lose what sunshine and green places were still available to them, after Tamlin's disappearance.

Hated to, but had to. She would have sent… someone, if he didn't. To punish the Spring Court. Or perhaps punished Tamlin in their stead. Lucien thought of the rumors that had made their way back, carried by members of the Spring Court who spent time Under the Mountain to keep the peace.

He would slaughter Rhysand himself with his bare hands one day, for being party to Tamlin's humiliation. The courtiers had brought back whispers of Rhysand seeming to be always leaning on Tamlin's throne, whispering in his ear. Of Tamlin paraded naked by Rhysand through hallways at her order.

He would murder Rhysand one day, but for now, Lucien could plot with the best of them. He hadn't fought her demand for soldiers. Instead, he'd done exactly as she asked. It was a constant thorn in his gut that he had knuckled under so quickly, but without Tamlin, and with no real parting advice...

_I know you were furious about it, but you could at least have said goodbye, _Lucien thought, realizing the pettiness in his mind even as he thought it. Tamlin had been in his rooms. Lucien knew he'd been in there, probably fuming. Then, when he'd gone to check on him later, he'd been gone, and the manor had already begun to age.

It told them what they needed to know.

Things would hold steady, as they were for now, whether or not he was there. After a couple of months, he had largely gotten the hang of what Tamlin had asked him to do but it… wasn't what he was intended for. He wasn't a High Lord. He could only try to keep the clocks on time, so to speak. Help everyone adjust to a new routine to their days, fearfully watching the woods. There were safe paths, another bit of Amarantha's 'mercy', he imagined. But only a few. And when you rode them, there were whispers in your ears the whole way.

He couldn't travel any faster than horseback allowed. Anything else, any hint of magical means, would have alerted whatever spies Amarantha had left watching the Spring Court, and besides, he'd be leaving most of his power at the manor to fool Amarantha's spies. He'd left a simple doppelganger in his place, a glamour that could act like him, look like him, go about his daily tasks. Hopefully, it would be enough. If it wasn't, he wasn't sure what Amarantha's unhappiness would look like, but he imagined it would not be… pleasant.

Still. Lucien saddled his horse himself, after bidding farewell to the servants, swearing them to secrecy as to his absence. Amarantha must not know he was gone. She had no need to speak to him, now. He was no one's emissary. He was a caretaker, he thought as he pulled his hood down over his head, just a caretaker sweeping the dust off a grave before its inhabitant was dead.

_There is one corpse that would have been a true lady here, _he thought, and his scarred face twisted with pain. Feyre. Her ruined body, carefully stitched back together, held in eternal beauty in the mausoleum.

"Doing it for you, hellcat, and for him," He murmured. "I hope it works."

If it did, he would fulfill her final wish. That had to be worth something.

"_This is what you reject me for?" Amarantha's voice had been a harsh shriek, like a screaming animal in a trap. "This inconstant heart? This frail body?" Feyre had looked to Tamlin for help, but Amarantha had used his own lands against him, had twisted vines up out of the earth to hold him. Lucien had been held by two of her minions, their claws pressing into his arms as he struggled. The servants and soldiers were kept away as her creatures swarmed the manor. _

_Amarantha gestured to the carriage nearby, currently on fire, some of her own creatures gathered around it and laughing as they threw Feyre's luggage into the blaze. "You thought to hide her from me? Good for me, then, that I know better than to trust Rhysand to tell me everything."_

_Rhysand had stood to the side, his face empty of feeling, his hands out just slightly in front of him, as though the High Lord of Night might actually _do something _in his miserable life. "My Lady, I-"_

"_Kill her." Amarantha's tone was imperious. When Rhysand didn't move, she looked over to him, one eyebrow raising. Someone screamed, not far away. A child's scream._

_Rhysand stood straight, just this once. "No."_

"_I said, kill her," Amarantha's tone was dangerous now._

"_And I said no," Rhysand had whispered, tremendous pain in his face. Lucien had watched, disbelieving, as the right hand of the Queen, Amarantha's whore, had fallen to the floor in agony when he refused her commands._

"_Amarantha, please," Tamlin had begged, pleaded even, blazing like a brilliant sun as he spent every piece of power trying to fight himself free. Lucien couldn't bear to look at him. "Please, I'll come with you, I'll swear myself to you, please just let her go-"_

"_If your _servants _cannot properly serve, I suppose you must do it yourself," Amarantha purred. "It's too late, Tamlin. I'll have you either way. I won't leave loose ends." With that, Feyre had been pulled into the air, her limbs out at harsh angles. She had begun to scream-_

Lucien shook himself, trying to put the image out of his mind. The beginning of the end, in that moment. Amarantha allowing the Spring Court to go free had been rare mercy from her, indeed. Lucien had expected her to simply slaughter them all. Instead, she'd left Tamlin to make his preparations, and sent that… letter. With an incredibly descriptive paragraph simply listing all the awful things she intended to force Lucien to do. Granted, it was sandwiched between other paragraphs listing all the even worse things Tamlin would be forced to do.

_Those last moments, where her agony had blasted into all of their heads, where even Rhysand had twisted, his hard-won composure broken, Feyre had felt… shame. Feyre's last thoughts had been an apology to Tamlin, for failing him_.

Lucien closed his eyes, feeling the scar that twisted up his eyebrow pull, slightly, at the motion.. _There is absolutely no way we decadent, selfish immortals deserved a moment of that devotion._

If this worked… Lucien swung himself up into the saddle, clicking his tongue against his teeth to urge his horse onward. It balked, as he moved towards the 'safe' path through the woods, but eventually, carefully, it trotted forwards. The trees, so beautiful and green before, were twisted and gnarled. Their songs had warped, gone off-key, tuneless. They seemed like ancient threats, a warning. He heard voices in the sound of the wind on the leaves.

_Lucien… _Feyre's voice, achingly sweet. _Lucien, she's hurting us, I need your help. Come find me. Tamlin's hurt, he's… I think he's dying… _She began to weep, that echoing Feyre-voice, somewhere off to his left. _Please, where are you? _Lucien ground his teeth and only kicked his heels a little harder, speeding the horse's slow trot into a gallop. At least he knew that it was only his mind being reflected back at him, that the creature did not know who it was trying to bait. Could not take his escape back to Amarantha's Court.

_Please, Lucien! _The fear and betrayal in her voice brought tears to his eyes. _Don't you love him at all?_

Of course he did. Tamlin was his brother, of sorts. The one who had given him safety and shelter when no one else could, or would. Who had named him emissary to shield him, given him a new life and a purpose beyond his own.

He would have to visit every damn court in the kingdom. A piece of what he needed resided in every place, had been hidden away to ensure it could never be reconstructed until every Court united. How he would manage the Autumn Court, he had no idea, unless…

_I am Regent, which is something. Not much, but there's a protection in that. They cannot kill me Under the Mountain; it would offend Amarantha's hospitality… such as it is._

Tamlin would rather die than see him there, and he knew it.

Still, what must be done must be done. Maybe… maybe he'd see his mother again, for a moment. The part of his heart that was always a child yearning to be loved leapt at the thought. Even if she would not touch him or talk to him, he could see her, and know she was all right. And his brothers would have to fume helplessly, unable to so much as lay a hand on him while he acted in the interests of the Spring Court.

_Unless Amarantha finds out and rips that fragile position out of your hands._

Well. He'd just have to be exceptionally secretive and dashing and handsome, wouldn't he? Besides, Amarantha would thrill at the idea of showing off her captive in front of what must seem like his last remaining friend. She wouldn't think to question it; in the long-term, Amarantha was brilliant. She held grudges for centuries, acted on them only when the moment was right.

But in the short-term… In the short-term, especially when crowing over her victories, Amarantha could be… manipulated. She had been so led by her own grief and rage that she'd lost the King of Hybern a war by refusing to leave Jurian's torment long enough to lead his armies. She'd been so smug, in her certainty, that they had nearly succeeded in breaking the curse. Nearly.

Lucien and his horse trudged grimly on ahead. In his saddle-pack, he had some food and water for the journey, and… gifts, of a sort, for the various Courts. He would need their help, and it wasn't going to be easy. Start with the rebels first, he thought. The Courts that had tried, if in vain, to fight back. Who had lost precious lives to Amarantha's rage.

First, he'd speak to Tarquin in the Summer Court. If he agreed with the plan, Tarquin could ensure he could travel between the Courts more quickly without Amarantha becoming aware of it. Then, Kallias at the Winter Court. Finally… Helion, in the Day Court.

After that… _What I want to do will benefit Rhysand, too, _Lucien thought, an old hate stirring in him. Not that the High Lord of Night deserved anything better than a beheading; maybe a quick one, for mercy's sake. But he'd been trapped, too, hadn't he? And he had refused to take Feyre's life at her command.

No one was Amarantha's whore by choice. He'd made some agreement, probably the same as Tamlin's. His people no doubt saw things differently than Lucien did. While the Night Court was ambitious and scheming and backstabbing, he'd have to hope that the offense of seeing their High Lord debased would be enough to get them on his side.

That would leave only the Autumn Court, then. Which he would have to deal with by going Under the Mountain.

If he could get High Lords to ally with him, he could put together the ancient machinery in a year, maybe two. Maybe less, if miracles decided to rain from the sky. Without allies… it would take considerably longer than that wouldn't it? If ever.

"Just wait for me, Tam," Lucien murmured as he rode. The woods continued to whisper on each side, promises and threats. He pulled his hood down tighter, glad he'd taken the time to tie his hair back and hide it under the cloak. The forest did not know who he was, and he would have to hope it would be enough of a shield to get him to the Summer Court.

"Just wait for me."


	5. Chapter 5

It didn't take long, for even hell to have a routine.

Tamlin's days were a haze, marked mostly by the way his body ached after every night. His world had narrowed to the confines of these stone walls. Prythian belonged to her, as far as he was concerned. It was easier, if he just let him believe he was lost.

"_Your feet will stop at the perimeter," She'd whispered into his ear, kneeling beside him on the bed while Rhysand's mouth was on his neck, sucking hard enough to leave bruises she had refused to allow him to heal, bruises he would find himself constantly trying to hide with one hand the next night at court. His fingernails were dug so deeply into Rhysand's back he would have been afraid he'd draw blood, if he'd even remembered how to be afraid at all. "You will never see the sky, or the stars." Amarantha's hand ran over his back, ruffling through his hair, trailing along the length of his spine._

_Rhysand's mouth on his grew more demanding, and he tried to drown himself in it, to block her words out however he could. "You will live Under the Mountain, in the dark and the cold, until your skin is paler than his, until I tire of you. Until you love being imprisoned." She made some gesture he couldn't quite see and Rhysand grabbed him by the arms, spun him around. _

_Rhysand's violet eyes were shards of glass, reflecting some deeper pain Tamlin refused to think about._

_Tamlin's palms smacked into the iron bar above her bed. She'd had more mirrored glass installed above the iron bar. There was nowhere he could look that he could not see his own degradation. Amarantha had been the one to close the cuffs this time, and he'd almost whimpered at the way just _seeing _it made him harder than ever. Her smile was a demon's rictus, hair a-tumble around her, her own panting breath haunted the parts of his mind he had not yet been able to obliterate. _

_Rhysand had leaned in, his chest against Tamlin's back, kissing the close-cropped blond hair, trailing his mouth to Tamlin's ear. "Day by day," Rhysand had whispered, and it had been his words that sunk in, not hers. "Survive."_

"_It will take me so long to tire of you," Amarantha purred. "So long to break you. Rhysand, I think he's ready, don't you?" _

_Tears were standing in Tamlin's eyes, as he stared at himself in the mirror, and he hitched in a breath. He couldn't keep this up. Amarantha ducked herself under one of his arms, sliding her own arms around his neck, pressing her body to his. There was terror on the face of the Tamlin he could see in the mirror, terror and worse; a hungry, animal desire. He looked like a whore indeed, sandwiched between the two of them. Amarantha moved up on her knees, just slightly, and lowered herself onto him. He moaned, softly, even as Rhysand moved behind him._

_He couldn't keep living like this-_

"_Close your eyes, Spring," Rhysand had whispered into his ear, biting just slightly at the earlobe. He moved Tamlin's legs apart. "Don't look at her. Close your eyes. Close your-"_

"Open your eyes, Tam."

Tamlin swallowed, shifting in the lesser throne. Rhysand, who had leaned over him just slightly, straightened up and walked away, as though he'd only stopped by to inspect a bit of dirt on the floor. Amarantha was watching him, the smile on her face pleased enough that he imagined she could guess what he had been thinking about.

Hell had a routine. This was his.

Evening and early nights in the court, listening with little interest to updates from the other Courts, their preparations for defenses to protect against an invasion Amarantha seemed certain was coming, but refused to fully explain. The only time he cared was when a Spring Court representative would arrive with updates from Lucien. He wasn't allowed to speak to any member of his own Court, and so he could only watch, memorizing each detail. His fields were safe, the crops were coming in. Lucien sent tribute, here and there. An extra bit of flattery for Amarantha.

_At least I am not the only one swallowing my dignity. _He wondered, though, about the invading force Amarantha seemed so concerned about. The King of Hybern had expressed delight, via messenger, at the acquisition of the Spring Court, had mentioned forgiveness for her earlier actions. It must be something else, something darker. Maybe they'd get lucky and someone would just slaughter all of them, put the whole Fae world out of its eternal scheming misery.

For the most part, the things they said entered his mind and then dropped out of it just as quickly. He was no High Lord, no King or even Consort, here; just a whore, part of a matched set. Amarantha's whores, the dark and light. His skin had begun to lose its tan, and some of the powerful muscles seemed leaner.

Evenings and early night at her side. Sometimes, to make himself less bored for even a moment, he would even offer advice. He didn't even try to make it _bad _advice. What did it matter? She'd won. Sometimes, when she was happy with him playing along and pretending at being her partner, she'd let him send messages back home. Through her, of course. But still. He'd sent Lucien a letter she'd gone over, blotted certain sentences out with ink. But she had allowed him to send a letter, nonetheless. He hadn't heard back, but he hadn't expected to.

There was nothing they could say to each other to fix this.

He sat in the secondary throne, but Rhysand was always lurking behind him, blending into the shadows, always ready with a quip or comment seemingly designed to incite him to laughter or annoyance. Sometimes Rhysand's wry humor was all that kept him sane, a realization that had threatened to drive him mad in and of itself.

Once the nights had ended, usually with Tamlin half-drunk, always hungry with how little she allowed him to eat, he would be led back to her rooms. Mostly, Rhysand was ordered along. Sometimes, he wasn't.

It was the nights without Rhysand that were the worst.

He'd be escorted back to Rhysand's room when she finished with him. Mostly by Rhysand himself. Mostly naked. Once, his skin crawling, by the Attor, who had greeted him as he exited her room with a smug pleasure he could hardly stand. Hot bath, drawn and ready by Rhysand's strange shadow-servants the moment he entered. He and Rhysand would eat, sometimes, and occasionally even talk to each other. Then, collapsing into bed to dream, or more hopefully not dream at all. Wake up in the late afternoons, drag himself up, and do it again.

Feyre had not faded from his mind; the grief was still so strong he often woke in Rhysand's bed reaching out for her. But he had to put her away, just to not destroy himself by thinking of what she would think about what he did during the late nights and early mornings, the unholy appetites that continued to blossom from Amarantha's mind. He locked Feyre's memory carefully away in a box inside of him, and his face was cold and distant steel as he sat by Amarantha's throne.

The courtiers usually were quiet around him, although he knew the rumors they whispered behind their hands. After that first night with Rhysand, they had yet to cease. High Fae were not exactly kind; veiled allusions to the night had been made directly to his face by a member of the Dawn Court, the night after. Tamlin had only smiled a strange, distant smile, and said he didn't know what the man could possibly be referring to.

The humiliation wasn't in nights spent being ordered to do humiliating things, or have them done to him; the absolute pinnacle of her victory over him was in forcing him to be seen in the aftermath of it. He was a warning to every other High Lord; cross her, and be made into something less than fae, less than mortal, even.

The ash wounds, the trails of spirals and circles that marked the left side of his face and continued down over the entirety of his neck and collarbone, the patterns on his arms… those had finally done what she wished them to do. They did not disappear or heal, instead lingering as raised bumps, scars that sometimes burned, when he lay in bed next to Rhysand, listening to the other man's slow, even breathing.

_You could even get used to sharing a bed with your worst enemy_, he thought idly. _In the event one is trapped in Hell, even an enemy's bed is a comfort. At least you know where you stand. At least this is one person who doesn't try to touch me. Until she orders him to._

Amarantha seemed to have a new depravity ready for him each night, at first, and if asked to recount his worst memory so far he would have easily had a dozen or more fighting for prominence. And even worse, his body was starting to get used to it all, to the eventual escape into the back of his mind, to watching himself underneath her, or Rhysand, as if from a distance. It had started to stir to arousal before she even left the court each night, knowing what was coming.

Rhysand had urged him not to anger her, to keep his wits, his mind, about him. When the two of them were with her the night before, they bathed together in the morning, and Rhysand gave him what advice he had. It seemed some sort of kindness on Rhys's part, although he never explained it, and Tamlin didn't dare bring it up. "She's spent fifty years dreaming these up for you," Rhysand had murmured, eyes closed, sliding completely under the water, then back up, droplets running from his hair down his face. "Testing them on me. Let her go through her list. You have to take it one day at a time, Tamlin."

"I'm _tired_, Rhys," Tamlin muttered in response. His whole body ached, his arms and legs screaming after a night spent in ropes. _I had these made for you, _she had whispered. _Believe me, these knots are here for a reason and you are about to learn it. _This time, she had done it all herself, and forced Rhysand to stay and watch. "I can't keep this up. I can't."

"You have to, and you will." Rhysand watched him with those thoughtful, careful violet eyes. "She has meetings with the High Lord of the Autumn Court tonight. I think we will be given a reprieve, for the first time since your arrival."

"I suppose she'll force me publicly thank her for it." Tamlin ground his teeth together, looking down into the water. "Can a High Fae drown in three feet of bathwater, do you think?"

"You could try," Rhys said leisurely, appearing to look intently at his fingernails on one hand. "It didn't work when I did it, but hey, maybe my bathwater likes you better than I and wants to keep you around."

Tamlin laughed, despite himself. The only laughter he had these days, the only moments that weren't miserable, were because of Rhysand. It was a strange shift of events, one he was not entirely easy with. He was half-convinced one day he would learn Rhysand had been gaining his trust on purpose, as some trick of Amarantha's.

_What trick? She already has you. You moan like a bitch in heat on her command. She shreds you to bits and makes you beg for more. You've spent nearly as much time under Rhys as you have under her. What could Rhysand possibly say to her that would make it any worse? What punishment could she mete out that would be worse than having already slaughtered your true love and then chained you to her bed?_

"I just wish I could _control _something," Tamlin muttered, splashing a bit of water with one hand. "In the Spring Court…"

"Dangerous thoughts," Rhys interrupted, looking off towards the doorway. "Don't think about home. I never do, anymore. It… makes the days take longer. Don't think about what you left behind. What you're protecting."

"What are you protecting, Rhys?" Tamlin asked him, watching the other man's face. Rhys's expression did not change, but… yes, Tamlin had not missed the flicker of his eyelids. "What in the Hewn City is even worth doing this to yourself for?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be protected," Rhysand purred. "Just… take it day by day, minute by minute. Listen to everyone. Kallias still fumes. Tarquin's an open book. I've even seen signs that the Day Court is furious. I have no friends in the wider world of Prythian, Tamlin. There is nowhere I can go that I do not watch for daggers. _You, _however, have more friends than you realize. We may be able to make our move yet."

"I just want to make a choice," Tamlin continued as though he hadn't heard him. "I don't even choose my _wine_. She has it brought to me. Like a dog with a bowl of water. I don't even _like _her spiced wine."

"You sure drink enough of it."

"I'm _trying_ to drink myself to death, thank you very much."

"She wants to break you," Rhysand said languidly, as he stood up and took the short stairs out of the tub. Tamlin tried not to watch him, and failed. The problem with being told, being ordered, being _commanded _to bed Rhysand over and over and over, in every conceivable position, was that his body had begun to see Rhys as simply a prelude to the only escape he ever had, now. Those times when she just wanted to watch, when at least it was not _her_ touching him. Those were the best moments he had, other than the comfortable heat of the bath.

"I'm pretty well broken." Tamlin waited until Rhysand had been out of the room for a couple of minutes before he stood up and dried himself off, snapping his clothing on to hide his body's constant betrayal of him, the vague throb between his legs. _Stop it. Let me leave it in Amarantha's chambers. _He had left scratches, like claw marks, down Rhysand's back the other night. They were still there; Rhys had chosen not to heal them. He couldn't quite figure that one out. He wasn't sure it was wise to think about it too closely.

"Not broken not yet," Rhysand called to him from the main room. When he came out, the fire was burning steadily, warmly, and dinner (_breakfast? What time is it?_) was on plates, being placed carefully on the table by Rhys's two shadowy servant girls. They ignored Tamlin, but at least they did not seem to judge him.

"If you were broken, you wouldn't be talking to me. But she'll do what she can to find the thing that_ picks _at your sanity most. For me, it's…" His voice drifted off, and he met the eyes of one of the shadow-fae, who melted away with her sister into the wall. "Never mind. It's unimportant. For you, it's control. Its removal is driving you slowly mad. Which is exactly what she wants."

"She wanted me to be her lover, her Consort. This isn't… either of those things. I'm a body for her to use, not a partner."

Rhysand shrugged, gesturing to the table. The meal set before him was not Rhysand's usual Night Court fare. Instead, it was a young roasted chicken, steamed asparagus,, young spring greens cooked down with bacon, a pile of strawberries and blueberries and more, bread with butter. This was a _Spring Court feast_. Tamlin was on it before he could stop himself, forgetting even a hint of dignity.

He ate so little- No. She _allowed_ him so little, at the nightly banquets. These dinners (_breakfasts?_) were sometimes all he got. He suspected it was all in an attempt to ensure he was drunk by the time she called him to her chambers, since she had him drinking her awful spiced wine all night on an empty stomach.

"Amarantha waited fifty years for you," Rhysand smiled, eating his own meal delicately, one bite at a time. "I do think she loved you, as much as she ever does, at first. In the beginning, she called me by your name. A lot. It… curdled, with time. Now, it's revenge for having the balls to stand up to her for so long. I don't think she wants a Consort any longer. I think she just wants whores." He templed his fingers together at his chin, looking at Tamlin without any particular shame. "Until we stop entertaining her. At which point…"

"Right," Tamlin muttered. "Then I get my good death."

"I'm not sure being slaughtered _because you weren't an entertaining enough whore _is what I would call a 'good death', Tam."

Tamlin barked a laugh. "Better than drowning myself in your dirty bathwater, don't you think?"

Rhysand laughed as well. "Well _done_. You've changed, Spring."

"Not so much, Nightmare. You're just spending less of your time scheming to ruin me, now. Can't exactly plot my downfall if I've already thrown myself off a cliff, can you?"

"I have wings, Tam," Rhysand said, and as he did so, Tamlin could see them, the soft purplish-black leather of them folded against his back. Rhys's voice dropped to something only barely above a whisper. "I would have caught you."

"What?" Tamlin sat back, staring at him.

"Never mind." Rhysand smiled at him, that sly, slightly smirking grin that Tamlin had begun to understand was his own mental shield, Rhysand's version of Tamlin's own distant apathy. "Here's to one more day." He held out his goblet, and Tamlin picked up his own.

They clinked together.

"To one more day," Tamlin echoed, finding a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Then he took a drink, and sputtered. "Rhys! This is just water!"

Rhysand laughed, a deep and warm sound that Tamlin was discovering he genuinely, truly liked to hear. "Of course it is. It's barely morning! Besides, you don't get to drink yourself to death, not on my watch."

"You do spend a lot of time watching, these days." The teasing words were out of his mouth before he'd even thought them through, and he dropped his fork with a sudden clatter onto an empty plate. His face burned with embarrassment. "By the Cauldron. I'm sorry. I don't…"

"Go to bed, Spring," Rhys said, but his voice was distant and strange. "You're just tired. We all lose ourselves, when we're exhausted. You're drowning in double-entendres. It makes sense that sometimes a few stray ones pop up without your say-so."

"Yes. I'll… I'll do that." Tamlin stood, staring at nothing for a long moment, then slowly turned and walked over to Rhysand's bed, climbing in on what had become, over the past couple of months, his side.

He'd thought he would lie awake, that what he had said would haunt him, but his exhausted body needed rest far more than he wanted to analyze whether not he'd just started _flirting with the High Lord of the Night Court. _

He was asleep within seconds.

* * *

Rhysand, meanwhile, casually finished his dinner. Or… was it breakfast? He stared at the same spot on the wall where he always looked, the place he sometimes imagined was a window. He could almost see the stars, feel the rush of wind in his wings. He waited until Tamlin's breathing was deep, and even, and only then did he look over at him.

Tamlin lost the hardness that had grown onto his face over the past few months, in his sleep. He looked more like Rhysand remembered, from their childhoods. The short hair even suited him, although Rhysand would have allowed his fingernails to be torn out before he admitted it.

He had intended to leave Tamlin here to rot and suffer while he went home to Velaris. He had intended to be set free, to wave, carefree, at Tamlin's tortured expression, knowing someone else was in her bed, undergoing her tortures.

There was just one problem. She wasn't going to let him go. He'd have to come up with something else.

Or hope Lucien had something up his sleeve, and all those tributes were meant to keep Amarantha from looking too closely…

Rhysand called his shadow-servants to clean up the remains of the food, stood, and silently walked over to his side of the bed, climbing in without taking his eyes off Tamlin's sleeping face. The bruise on his neck was still visible, and Rhysand caught his breath, thinking about how it had gotten there, what it felt like to have a High Lord twist under his hands.

Tamlin shifted in his sleep, and Rhysand looked away, forcing himself to lie down with his back with the other man. He focused his gaze, carefully on the spot on the wall.

_Hell of a way to rekindle a friendship, _he thought, and caught himself smiling. He really _would _have to figure out a way to explain this to the others back home.


	6. Chapter 6

Rhysand was alone in his room. That was a rare thing, these days, and not only because Amarantha seemed to find some strange, indecent pleasure at the idea of forcing he and Tamlin to stay here together. There _had _to be a plot there, there _had to be a plan_. Amarantha was the queen of making wicked plans designed to destroy people, but this one Rhysand could not seem to figure out.

That worried him. He had made himself an expert on Amarantha's mind and how it worked, the way she followed her desires wherever they led and had such pinpointed obsessions. He could see no advantage for her in he and Tamlin's strange, uneasy friendship.

So why did she show such an interest in developing it? _Why?_

He was lounging in his new chair, the one he'd had brought in after Tamlin had so thoroughly dirtied up his old one. Even the twins had hesitated at his orders to carry it out, had found some other lesser fae to carry out the task.

Honestly, it was a superior chair. He didn't know why he hadn't asked for a new one earlier. _Because you've been pretending you wouldn't be here long enough to need it. You've had that gods-damned broken-down old chair for fifty years._

Tamlin was down in Amarantha's new library. She had built herself a truly beautiful one, too, full of books she had demanded from each and every one of the Prythian High Fae Courts. More books had come in only last week, he'd seen the carts full being sent in from the Spring Court, even more than she'd asked for. Amarantha had preened, taking it as further proof of the Spring Court's total supplication.

Rhysand knew better.

Sure enough, when Tamlin first ventured down into it, he had discovered, and excitedly related to Rhysand, that Lucien had sent all of his favorite books. Each and every one. Rhysand couldn't even hide the genuine pleasure he'd felt at seeing Tamlin be cheerful for once.

_Between the two of us, we do a decent job of keeping him from losing his mind, don't we, fox?_

Six months. It had flown by for him, but he knew each day dragged for Tamlin. Amarantha had not tired of him yet, although there were more and more of the occasional nights where she let he and Rhysand simply retire to Rhys's room. He knew better than to believe it a mercy; it was part of her strange, unknown plan. She was trying to force them together, somehow, and it burned in him that he did not know why.

Worse, he was pretty sure it was working.

He and Tamlin had spent so long hating each other that it hadn't occurred to him how easily they could stop.

Nuala faded in through the wall next to him, waiting patiently to be recognized. When he inclined his head in her direction, raising an eyebrow, he saw a rare smile on her face. "What is it?"

"We saw something," She whispered. Her sister faded in next to her. They shone, a little, with the brightness of their excitement. "We saw something you will want to see."

"My Lord, we heard something you will want to hear." They spoke together, in unison.

His eyebrow could not possibly have raised itself higher. He found himself sitting up, a little bit, in the chair. They hadn't come to him with that kind of excitement in a long, long time. "Show me."

Nuala murmured something and she and her sister moved their hands in a gentle, elegant kind of gestural dance. After a moment, a mockery of the sky seemed to build itself into just the height of a man. The darkness became more and more complete, stars winking out one by one, until he saw a hallway instead, through their eyes. _Both _of their eyes.

He'd never known how it worked, when they did this, and frankly he didn't think it was important to ask.

_The two were walking down the hallway, or more drifting, as was their way. He could see the empty space, with only a servant hurrying here or there. There was a bend in the hallway, and another. If he didn't miss his guess, they were in the part of the Court where the other Courts had their sleeping chambers, rooms upon rooms carved out of the rock for guests to use. _

_Nuala shushed her sister and, through their eyes, he watched them suddenly push themselves against the wall. He could tell the glamor took hold, and the two became utterly silent. _

"_-not to be borne," He heard a cold voice saying. Kallias. It had to be. The sound of footsteps, coming closer._

"_She _parades _the two of them like low-class whores," The other voice spat. "I saw Tamlin myself, the other morning. He was…"_

_"I don't want to know. I make it a point not to be here in the early mornings, these days, even when I know she will want me to visit. I will not be party to this."_

"_We're all party to it by giving him no aid," The second voice argued again. "We've done nothing to help him, and he is another High Lord in danger, and one who has always been an honest Lord to us." The two men came around the corner, and Rhysand felt his heart leap, just slightly. Kallias and Tarquin. So he had not missed his guess at all._

"_What can we do? She has our power in thrall. I cannot even hide my own people from her, when she wants them. We have no safe haven. What can we do?" The two men looked back and forth, seeing only an empty hallway. _

"_We have to do something. Last night, my servants reported they heard-"_

"_I try not to be here at night any longer, either," Kallias said, gritting his teeth visibly. He dusted off his immaculate white shirt, the icy blue embroidery seeming to shift and move under his hands. "Thankfully she's allowed me to come and go from my Court as I please. Which would be lovely, if I hadn't sent nearly all of them away." He sighed, squeezing the bridge of his finely shaped nose with his fingertips. "I've heard him too, before. Seen him, with Amarantha's whore. Rhysand looking like he just came from a _tea_ party, not a hair out of place. Meanwhile, he escorts the Spring Lord…"_

"_He does more than that." Rhysand felt his face burning, just slightly, but he did not move. He did not so much as bat an eyelash. He was too far gone in her depravations for shame. _

_They both seemed sincere enough. Were they angry enough to fight back? After having already lost so much, the last time they tried? Tarquin inclined his head close to Kallias, and Rhysand could only just barely hear him. "Rumor has it Rhysand is hilt-deep in him while he beds Amarantha. Or often that Rhysand volunteers to take Tamlin by himself. The rumor is that the Spring Lord's refusals are plenty, and ignored."_

_Kallias's lip curled in a disgusted sneer. "Some Illyrian custom, no doubt. You've seen how they treat their women. I would expect no less from the High Lord of the Night Court. I hope it was Amarantha's idea, and not… his. I'm sure he curries favor by doing so."_

_Rhysand felt an irrational urge to step forward, to defend himself. _No, you fools, he'll go mad without help, I try only to give him a moment where he forgets himself. This wasn't my idea, I only want… _What did he want, though, really?_

"_It's been half a year. She uses our powers on him, some nights," Tarquin muttered. "I can feel it."_

"_So can I," Kallias spat. His eyes glinted, sunshine on black ice, something you could misjudge and find yourself pulled down to drown under. "She has enchanted my ice into… I don't want to elaborate on it. I have tried to speak with her about it. She only laughs. Says I should learn to enjoy the feeling."_

"_She revels in what she can do to us, Tamlin's proof of that. Kallias…" Tarquin took a deep breath, looking back and forth again. Then he leaned in. "What if we could fight her? In a way she would never, ever expect?"_

_Kallias's face was an emotionless block, but one eyebrow was raised in curiosity. "Do you have something in mind?"_

"_I have a visitor, in my Court," Tarquin whispered. Nuala was straining to hear it; and by association, so was Rhysand. "Arrived five days ago. Apparently had some misfortunes, trying to reach me, ended up being much delayed and worse for wear. Someone with an idea that will free Tamlin. Free us all of her domination. It could be our revenge."_

"_That's a risk, boy," Kallias hissed. "We've lost people, taking risks like that, plotting against her. The previous High Lord of Summer…"_

_"I know what happened. I was part of the group of Fae who helped to… clean up the palace. I don't ask you to agree to help right away. Only come with me, to meet with my guest." Tarquin smiled. It was not a nice smile. Rhysand was impressed. This was some true Night Court-style secret plotting._

"_Who is your guest?" Kallias asked._

"_You'll see if you agree to meet. Send me word, and I will ensure the guest arrives." Tarquin walked away, hands in pockets, whistling cheerfully. He passed the place the shadow-servants hid, and never so much as hesitated. _

_Kallias stood, looking after him. Eventually, a ghost of a smile played along his face, and he walked the other direction._

The vision ended, and the foggy darkness dissipated. Rhysand looked back at his servants, who stood like excited children. They hated it here as much as he did, of course, but to their credit neither had ever asked to be sent home and replaced. They had been his loyal spies, right from the start.

"Excellent work, my good ladies," He said, tilting his head back to look up towards the ceiling. "I was right when I guessed Tamlin had more friends than he understood. But _who_ is the mysterious unnamed guest? Lucien sent those books himself. I saw his signature on the letter. And Amarantha would know if he so much as stepped foot outside the borders of the Spring Court. She would whip him herself if he was idiotic enough to come _here._ I must be missing something."

"We'll keep watch, as we can," Nuala murmured. Then she turned, looking towards the door. The two spoke as one. "Your High Lord returns to you."

Rhysand rolled his eyes. "He's _not _my-"

But they were gone, faded back into his wall. A moment later, the door opened, and Tamlin came in. The early red burn of his scars had faded. The patterns were now a subtle, but constant, part of his skin. Rhysand had been ordered to lick them before, one tiny bump at a time. He'd been surprised at the intensity of Tamlin's response, considering that Amarantha had not actually commanded him to enjoy it, that time.

Rhysand had bedded his share of women - and more than a few men, on Amarantha's orders - but knowing the heights he could bring another High Lord to, hearing Tamlin's hunter's growl turn to those low-pitched whimpers, the rattling silver of the chains the background to his whispered demands for _more, harder, faster _was something else entirely.

_Stop. Control yourself. You are a High Lord. Act like one._

He gave a lazy smile, watching Tamlin step in with an armful of books, a far-away happiness on his own face. "Well, _someone_ looks like he's been having fun," He drawled. "In the library, no less. I don't know that I ever thought I would say _that._"

"I can't believe he sent some of these!" Tamlin dropped three large leather-bound tomes onto the table. The lack of sunlight was starting to show, and the seemingly endless parade of silver-traced black shirts and pants was beginning to be more flattering. Or maybe Rhysand simply saw him in a different light. "My mother wrote _notes _in this one. It was her favorite, it's about pirates."

"Your mother loved books about pirates?" He felt one eyebrow raise. This was officially more information about Tamlin's family than he'd ever really heard. "But she was so…"

"I know. But she did. She had whole collections of them. And then this is a book of limericks, he remembered it was my favorite…" He continued speaking excitedly about the contents of the books, and Rhysand watched him, considering. He hadn't expected a library, of all things, to soothe someone whose life was mostly spent out of doors, hunting and battling, caring for a land of plenty. Tamlin had layers, didn't he?

_He's just clinging on to whatever he can find, Rhys. You've done the same, in the early days. You're getting sentimental. Stop it. He's not your friend. You are simply High Lords held prisoner together. The Night Court would laugh at you, to see this._

"I'm surprised she allowed you to remove them," Rhys said mildly, but he watched his aim strike true. Some of Tamlin's simple enthusiasm faded and he looked over at him, eyes narrowed.

_Why did I do that? He was so happy, for a moment, and I ruined it._

"She told me she appreciated my _efforts to adapt to my new eternity,_" Tamlin spat. "She let me choose three. I just wanted-"

"I know, Spring. You just wanted to choose." Rhysand pretended to pick a speck of something off one of his sleeves, then looked lazily back up at the other man. "Did she mention her plans for the night?"

Tamlin swallowed. All the happiness he'd brought in with the books was gone. Rhysand felt guilty, and relieved, and some other things besides that he refused to think about. Tamlin looked towards the fireplace, one hand resting atop the pile of books, and then he slowly pulled his hand away.

"Yes. She did." He kept his eyes on the fireplace. Rhysand kept his eyes on Tamlin. Rhysand watched the scars shift over his Adam's apple as he swallowed. _The hollow just below his jaw seemed to cause special pleasure-_ "I have to earn the books. I told her I would. Without being commanded."

"The books are yours. Don't let her convince you you're _earning _anything. You're a captive, a slave, but you're not _indebted to her. _These are stolen from your library. She cannot take anything from you-"

"She's taken _everything from me!" _Tamlin roared the words as he spun around, picking up a bottle of wine and throwing it into the fire. Rhysand saw the flash of the beast in him, a hint of claws and sharp teeth, before he let out a cry of pain and stumbled back against the wall. Amarantha's magic rippled over him, closing tightly on his skin, until the claws were gone.

"She took my lands, my people. She took _Feyre_, did not just take her but _murdered her in front of my eyes! _She's ensured Lucien is as trapped as I am. She has taken _possession of me, _like I am a coveted toy. She has _you _take-"

"I think we both know most of what _I _do is _give,_" Rhysand said mildly. Guilt for causing this upset raged in him, but his composed, slightly distant expression never wavered.

Tamlin barked a laugh, a furious sound that had no humor at all. "Right, right, you were _innocent-_"

"Not innocent," Rhysand said in a low, seductive voice. "Never that. But what happened to her was not my idea. And I swear to you on the graves of my sister and mother, I never told her Feyre existed. None of this has been my idea."

"No, of course not. You thought you'd take your leave, with me chained to her bed, and never think of me again."

He couldn't deny it. Instead, he stayed silent. Tamlin's gaze was focused on his as the other man all but stalked closer. He pulled a chair out from the small table and settled himself into it, those green-gold eyes still focused, blazing, on Rhysand. After a moment, the High Lord of Night, uncharacteristically, dropped his eyes.

There was a long silence. All the rage dropped suddenly out of the Spring Lord, and he dropped his head into his hands, elbows on the table. "I'm sorry."

"Not an issue," Rhysand replied smoothly. "Outbursts are to be expected-"

"Not that. You deserved_ that_. I meant that I'm sorry, for what it's worth, that she did not free you." He looked up, and smiled. "I know you miss home, Nightmare. Whatever that word means to you. I know you are tortured all over again by her broken promise."

Rhysand was silent this time only because he did not know what to say. Instead, he only nodded.

"I'm also… grateful that you make this torture more bearable. I only wish I had the faintest hope to escape it so I could ever pay you back."

_Tell him. _

Rhysand coughed politely into his fist. "I think, should we escape, that this is probably a favor we would never speak of again, thank you."

"I'm a prisoner. We both are." Tamlin squared his shoulders and sat up straight, and seemed to grow in size as he did. Rhysand could see the Spring Lord, there, now, where Tamlin had seemed so reduced in recent days. He could see the hint of shimmer around his head and hands, the magic that struggled to escape Amarantha's tightly-woven bonds. The golden impression of claws that yearned to be released. "Prisoners… do what must be done. That's what's happening, here. I am trapped, for the rest of my life. Apparently with you. I'll… do what I have to."

Rhysand closed his eyes, briefly. _Tell him about the plot. Tell him. Give him something to hope for._

Instead, he said nothing. There was a long stretch of silence, and then he held one hand out. "Tell me more about these books you brought back, Spring. What in the name of the Cauldron would lead you to be interested in _limericks_?"

Tamlin couldn't know a thing until he was sure. Tamlin didn't think like prey, but like a hunter; if he knew he'd try to seek the other men out and put the whole thing at risk. He'd let something slip, or Amarantha would read it in his gaze. Or force Rhysand to tear it out of his mind.

_Or… she'll separate the two of you and you'll no longer have the pleasure of his company. Isn't that what this really is?_

Rhysand fixed his sly smirk on his face and listened to Tamlin talk, watched the enthusiasm slowly grow in his face again. This time, he did not interrupt it. Indeed, he rather enjoyed it. He even let himself enjoy a moment spent thinking about the scars on the inside of Tamlin's wrists, that the scar tissue seemed somehow more sensitive, rather than less. That the spot over his pulse, just below his palm, that was Rhysand's favorite place on the other man's entire body.

Tamlin was bright, and animated, and seemed for all the world like he and Rhysand were simply friends, sharing a conversation, rather than prisoners forced into the same cell.

_Is this who he is, when he does not hate you? It's been so long. I can see what the human woman was so enthralled by._


	7. Chapter 7

"You have got to be kidding me," Kallias said, when Lucien pulled the hood back from his face, not in derision but in genuine surprise.

They were standing in a small, dark room in the back of the Summer Court's quarters within Amarantha's domain. Here, you could smell the sunshine and flowers. Here, courtiers came and went, giving Tarquin the information he needed. There was even a small garden in the back, where a patch of sun shone seemingly from nowhere on a small bed of wildflowers. Each Court had a room like this - and for the moment you were in it, you stood in your own domain, not Amarantha's. Lucien could not step one foot out the door without risk, but in here, he was safe.

_It must have cost Tarquin quite a bit of what he has left of his power to do that, _Lucien thought. Lucien's auburn hair glimmered when the sun caught it, and Tarquin looked from one to the other, hope shining in every pore of his skin._ Someone really must teach him to lie, _Lucien thought.

"You were expecting someone else?" Lucien asked, smirking. He was wearing clothes that Tarquin had provided him, the loose, light pants and shirt that the Summer Court was known for, under his hooded cloak. Now if only he could have both of his eyes and significantly darker skin, he could have passed for someone who belonged in Summer. He could glamour himself, long enough to get through the streets and find the strange, empty castle that had once been bustling atop the Summer lands' highest peak, but anything more and he risked Amarantha noticing he wasn't where he was supposed to be. As it was, Tarquin had taken his own risks and come to him directly to winnow him here.

The High Lords were not forbidden to leave Under the Mountain, not exactly, but Amarantha knew exactly where they went if they did.

"Not exactly," Kallias admitted, his tone frosty. He was wearing white, with that icy blue embroidery, lined in some shining dark fur. "Just… not you. I was under the impression you can't step foot off Tamlin's grounds, not even to the village. Although I suppose it makes sense that it would be you who sought out a way to free him. How did you get here? More importantly, how are you not already captured?"

"I rode a horse," Lucien said, grimacing slightly. "For nearly two months straight, to get out of the Spring lands. Then I was set upon by bandits near the border, the horse was stolen and I walked the rest of the way."

Kallias did not laugh, to his credit, but he looked as if it took significant effort not to. "Tarquin mentioned that his guest had been… waylaid by misfortune. Bandits? Your _horse _was stolen?" He frowned. "Amarantha's rule seems to risk our safety more each year. Wait. Forgive me… You _walked? _Why not simply... " He waved a hand in the air. "... be here? Well, there, rather."

Lucien shook his head, frowning. His metal eye whirred in the quiet of the small room. "She's got creatures that do nothing but wait to see a trace of my magic used outside of the manor grounds. I've left nearly all of it there, to trick her. I can do little more than keep myself clean, right now. She has me trapped in a very pretty cage at Rosehall, but it's still a cage, in the end. However, I have _never _done well being given orders about my future and I do not intend to start knuckling under now." He rolled his eyes. "I had to come here like a mortal or she would have scented me immediately."

He blew air out of his mouth, rolling his eyes. "No wonder mortals never travel far from home."

"The last time we rebelled against her," Kallias said quietly, "Many innocents died, Lucien. I lost… dozens. Some of them nearly gave away the location of my family, under her tortures, before Rhysand slaughtered them."

"I know that," Lucien frowned. "I remember."

"But you did not _experience it._ You lost no loved ones or subjects. I spent weeks worrying that she - that my people would be discovered. I still wonder if they will. I… worry that your long affection for the Spring Court's High Lord could cause you to _misstep_, Lucien. And that Tarquin's eagerness to undo Amarantha's monarchy blinds him to potential faults in your no-doubt hurriedly put together plan. If you stumble, and we are discovered, I do not think I can protect my people again."

_Interesting. There's a she._

Lucien waited a beat. When neither of the High Lords spoke more, he sighed, putting a hand up over his metal eye. "I have never lied to you, Kallias - or you, Tarquin. Not about anything that mattered, anyway. I have always been honest and respectful with both of you. I have always followed the laws of your courts to the letter, during my visits."

"That is true," Kallias admitted, thoughtfully. "You have always been a popular guest in my court."

"Mine as well," Tarquin spoke up. "Some of my… fairer courtiers have gone to Calanmai _just _to see Lucien."

Lucien couldn't quite hold back his smile. "Indeed. You'll give Lyssa my love when next you see her, of course. And apologize that I could not greet her in person. But… that's not my point. I need you to trust that I am honest now. I trapped a Suriel, for three days, in the wood."

"Risky," Kallias murmured. "How do you know it will not simply feed that information to Amarantha?"

"I don't, except that the Suriels have been a danger in the woods since the woods began. It has no loyalty to her, and with the woods twisted, it struggles to hunt. I fed it, and gave it a robe, and asked it many questions. Then I let it know that I would see that its kind were fed until Tamlin returns."

"You'll end up king of the Suriels," Kallias said, but that small, frosty smile was on his lips again. Was he… impressed?

"Cauldron forbid. I know that it answered honestly, if… in riddles. It told me how I might save my lord, and made it clear that if I do so, I will save the rest of you, too." _Save and possibly damn in the same breath. But Tamlin will be free. In our freedom we could bind it..._

Kallias looked back at Tarquin, quirking one eyebrow. "Riddles, Tarquin? I risk my lands on the strength of a riddle?"

"Nine riddles, actually," Lucien said helpfully. "One for each Court, one for Tamlin, and one… one I don't understand."

"I've seen the riddles, Kallias," Tarquin said quickly. "I've read them myself. I think I even know what one of them is referring to, where it will lead us. I am already thinking over who I can trust to go with Lucien to solve it."

Kallias was silent, thoughtful.

"We can _do this, _Kallias." Tarquin stepped forward, putting a hand on Kallias's shoulder. "I'll ensure that Lucien's travels will make Amarantha think of my magic, not Tamlin's, until he leaves for your court. She might wonder what I'm doing, roaming my lands, but I've already set a rumor that I intend to tour my countryside to settle my rage. She feels so comfortable in her victory over us that she believes we can do nothing, even in our own lands. Let's _use that._"

"After he leaves?"

"After that, you shroud him in your magic, until he makes it to Day. And so on. If we can get the other High Lords-"

"Ha." There was no discernable change to Kallias's expression to show whether his laughter was sarcastic or not. "All of them?"

Tarquin deflated, just a bit, but then carried on. "All of them. Lucien has friends in every court-"

"Except the Autumn Court."

"I have a plan for that," Lucien said helpfully. "It's a good plan. Trust me. I also… am not well-received by the Night Court. Last I checked no one there _actively_ intends to kill me, but… you know what, I have a plan for that, too."

"Let's hope it's not to simply arrive on their doorstep and hope they care about _Amarantha's whore _more than themselves. I wouldn't bet on that. Those scheming snakes probably wish she'd just kill him so they can fight over his throne."

Lucien swallowed, hoping his nervousness did not show on his face. "They might care. They may not. I have… call it a hunch, that I can make it work. Even Rhysand has friends, right?"

"_Does_ he? They've not moved a muscle to his aid in fifty years," Kallias said, his ice-chip eyes flashing. "None of the High Fae from the Night Court so much as _visit. _What makes you think they give a damn? If it were a member of _my court-_"

"You would have stood to the side, too," Lucien said firmly. "You would have decided the health of your lands and your people was more important than a single life. That's the choice Tamlin made, isn't it? I… am coming to believe it is the choice that Rhysand made, too."

"It is the choice _Rhysand_ made," Kallias snapped. "I disagree with the assertion that Tamlin was given any choice at all. Were one of my Court so held, I would never stop working to free him. The Night Court has _never moved to aid their Lord_. You should take care. They may declare him worthless."

"The riddle makes it clear I must go there," Lucien pushed back. Doubt settled in the back of his mind. _What if Kallias was right? _The Suriel's words never promised victory. Only a chance. "I think you will find they are more loyal than we know. Seeing Tamlin… I have reconsidered whether or not I believe Rhysand is there by any real choice. Tamlin has been made a sacrifice."

Kallias and Tarquin shared an expression that seemed equal parts concern and pity, and some deeper disgust. "Indeed," Kallias said quietly. "Tamlin has been asked to sacrifice much. But I would hesitate before you try to find it in your heart to _feel bad _for Rhysand. Not if you knew what we do about what goes on in Amarantha's court."

"I… don't know much," Lucien admitted. He frowned, as they looked at each other with that strange pity again. "There are rumors that find their way to me. What? Is it worse than I know?"

Kallias looked back at Lucien, thinking things over, crossing his arms slowly in front of himself. "It's better you don't. You might hesitate to visit the Night Court if you had seen what we have. Don't count Rhysand as an ally, or his people. And if this is going to work, and truly needs every single court to help-"

"It does." _What are they not telling me about Rhysand and Tamlin?_

Finally, Kallias nodded. "I make no promises on what moves I will make directly against her, Lucien. My own Court must always be first in my mind. But I want to see these riddles. Tell me your plan. I want to grind her dead face into the dirt beneath a glacier, until there is not enough of her to scrape up with a dustpan. I will give you all the aid that I can without risking my court, and I will not breathe a word to anyone who might take it back to Amarantha. I give you my oath on that."

Tarquin smiled, his dark-skinned face lighting up. "See, Lucien? I told you he would agree to look at it."

"You did, at that," Lucien acknowledged. "I'm glad to have your friendship, Lord Tarquin. My own lord will be grateful for your aid in freeing him."

"Indeed." Kallias's expression became calculating. "Would you... say he would owe me a favor? If I should be instrumental in his rescue?"

"Yes," Lucien said quickly. "A boon from Tamlin, for you, so long as it brings no harm to the Spring Court or to Tamlin himself. A favor from me as well, and you may make that favor anything you wish, same terms."

Kallias smiled, for the first time unguarded. "_Two _favors? That is a bargain, Lucien." He held out his cold hand, and they shook.

Kallias looked over his shoulder at Tarquin."What does he owe you?"

"Five years' service in my Court, whatever aid I require during that time, and a boon from Tamlin." Tarquin's smile brightened the room. The spot of sunshine seemed brighter.

"Damn, I should have thought of service."

"You're promising a lot of favors on Tamlin's behalf," Tarquin said, thoughtfully.

"I do what I must, and so does he."

Again, that look of pity between them. _What do I not know? _"Indeed he does," Kallias said. Tarquin opened the door, and the High Lord of the Winter Court was gone.

"Well," Tarquin said brightly. "That went well! Let's get you back to my Court."

Lucien smiled, but his mind already was elsewhere.

He was so close, to be here in Tarquin's rooms, but he could go no further, no closer to Tamlin.

Six months. It had already been six months since Tamlin had gone. A blink in the eye of an immortal life, but who knew what that life was like, down there Under the Mountain? Who knew what hell Tamlin was living through?

* * *

He'd made her angry, the night before. Reading the books, seeing his mother's faint writing in the margins of her favorite pirate story, where she'd written little bits on metaphor and the way certain themes carried through from start to finish (and marked an entire section _utterly romantic_, which both made him smile and made him wonder just what it was his mother had so loved about pirate stories), had set him on edge. Reminded him of his captivity, even as she had given him the books as a means to try and placate him.

It had been days since he'd 'earned' the books. That had been… painful. He'd expected the usual, but when she'd brought him into her chambers, the pile of knotted rope and that rectangular box had been on the bed again. And what was inside had not been for _her_, this time. He had not said no. She never listened when he tried. She simply gave the command, and his body obeyed.

He'd felt… worse, afterward. More shameful than ever before. And it had been a night without Rhysand, who had not even been in his room when Tamlin stumbled back in, escorted by the Attor, who had kept up a nonstop whisper of lewd commentary the entire way.

Tamlin had woken screaming from nightmares of those ropes, the contents of that small box, only to still be alone. When Rhysand finally returned, midway through the afternoon, Tamlin had asked where he was. Rhysand refused to say.

_Even now, he lies to me. When we should have no room for lies between us by now. _Rhysand's eternal duplicity infuriated him, when it reared its ugly head.

After that, she'd gone three days in a row without bringing him to her chambers, until last night. He'd spent his time reading, desperately losing himself in the books. Rhysand had been distant. Hardly speaking to him, constantly coming and going. He was working some problem over in his mind, Tamlin could tell. What it was, though, he refused to share.

And last night, another night without Rhysand called in with him, had… gone poorly. Amarantha, waiting just until he, chained to the wall as he nearly always was with her, had begun to truly lose himself in her body, had taunted him with Feyre's death.

Tamlin's rage had nearly torn out of the magic that held back the beast that he could always feel, lingering in the back of his mind. Claws had popped out of his fingertips and he had nearly broken the chains around his wrists, had torn them bloody in the process. The magic had rippled across them, cracked apart for just one second, before sealing itself back together in a clap of agony through his body. He had, however briefly, _frightened_ her. There had been some screaming. He had… said some things that in any other situation he would say he regretted.

She had reacted with cold, unyielding fury, eventually sending him back to his room with orders to do no more than bandage the wounds on his wrists. But she had done nothing else to him yet.

Now he sat, watching the restless irritation in Amarantha's eyes, wondering what she was thinking, and absolutely refusing to ask. She could force him to beg - and did, sometimes until his throat was raw - but he would not pretend to care about her. Not even if it might give him a warning about what would happen next. The longer this went on, the more it really sunk in that all Amarantha had taken from him was his body.

His mind was still his own.

If only Rhysand had been with him last night to remind him of that.

_You want Rhysand with you? To protect you from yourself? Are you a maiden that needs protecting, High Lord of the Spring Court?_

"You've been quiet tonight," Rhys murmured, one arm resting on the back of Tamlin's throne, leaning over him, mouth only inches from his hair. He knew the court saw Rhysand's posture as casually possessive, indecent, but with Amarantha clearly plotting something, it was actually reassuring.

"I'm worried," He said, trying not to actually move his mouth. "I angered her last night."

"How?"

"I… may have spit in her face. And tried to kill her."

Rhysand's eyebrows raised. "Really?"

"There were some other things. Words I said. She brought up Feyre."

Rhysand closed his eyes, briefly, as if looking at a wayward child who simply refused to listen. "Tamlin. You can't let her-"

"Well, I did. You weren't there. And she has been… planning something. I know it."

"No doubt in my mind," Rhysand murmured. "Take care, Spring."

"Tamlin. Attend me." Amarantha ordered. Her voice was dark, and the court was a mess of curiosity. Many had left, the longer this strange game she was playing with Tamlin and Rhys went on. More had stayed, out of fascination or even worry. The High Lords came and went, their newfound ability to go back to their own lands as they pleased a sign Primarily, he imagined, the former.

Tamlin stood. "Amarantha." Her name came out a snarl. Rhysand briefly clapped a hand to his shoulder in reassurance, then simply seemed to melt back into the shadows. A constant presence (_except last night, except this whole week - where has he been? Is he working for her?_), he only watched, his violet eyes flicking back and forth between the Queen and her erstwhile captive.

"What amuses you these days, Tamlin?" Amarantha asked, idly. She picked at one fingernail, looking off to the side. "What thoughts do you conjure, to entertain yourself? The death of your human lover, perhaps? It seemed to trouble you so last night, when I mentioned how I had ripped her arm off and thrown it at your feet. Of course, we were busy at the time. Did it ruin your ecstasy _so_ much? Perhaps now is a better time. Would you like me to describe the sensation of her arm coming out of its socket again? The grinding noise it made? Or did you hear that well enough, yourself?"

"Damn it," Rhys whispered. "She wants you to get mad so she can hurt you. Stay _calm, _Tam." Tamlin's teeth ground together. Grief and anger battled, equally strong. Anger, though, seemed the safer emotion. Anger did not mean he had to think about that last moment of terror eternally frozen into her face.

"Do you know what I dream about, my Lady?" He asked, his voice somehow both deathly quiet and impossibly loud in the silent hall. "I hope, mostly, to die. At your hands or another's, I don't care. Honestly, I'm looking forward to it. The most undignified, ignominious death imaginable is preferable to _one more night in your bed._"

A pin could have been heard falling in the throne room. Tamlin showed so little spirit these days and was such a silent, brooding presence. This single moment involved more words than he'd publicly said at once than the last two months combined.

"You are genuinely the stupidest fae alive," Rhysand muttered.

Amarantha smiled, but it did not reach her eyes, which burned with fury. "Are you not _happy_ during our time together, my love? I think half this court has heard_ exactly _how much you enjoy yourself with me. The throne has received several requests for you to _try to quiet it down next time._" As always, Tamlin heard the jeering laughter of some of the members of the court, and the stony silence of the rest. However they felt, they certainly weren't willing to speak up for him.

He was exhausted. His body ached. For six months, he had been forced along with her depraved desires. Last night, she had brought up _Feyre, taunting him with her death, _just as he had crested, just as he had nearly reached that place where he could simply watch himself from afar. It had slammed him back down into the moment. His grief had been as much from losing that dissociation as the memory of losing Feyre.

He'd had nothing to eat since this afternoon and she'd been feeding him goblets of wine all evening. The room did not quite spin - he was a High Fae who had been drinking wine for centuries, he could handle himself - but there was a certain fuzz to the edges of his vision. He could hear a warning bell somewhere back in his mind, but he could not stop himself.

"I'm not sure you should brag of your prowess when you have to _command _your lovers to feel pleasure. Order us to stay. And know, all the time, that we would rather be _dead_ than with you."

The court was silent, then. Even the jeering stopped. The only sound was the constant, ever-ready clink and whisper of wagers being made. Faeries and gambling.

"Don't be an idiot, Tam," Rhysand whispered, appearing at his side and putting a hand on his shoulder. Tamlin jerked himself away, half-shoving the other man in the process. Rhysand, as always, did not stumble but stood with not a hair out of place, violet eyes narrowed.

Tamlin turned on his heel and walked towards the door.

"Stop," She ordered. His body stopped, but he kept his eyes on the exit. "Return to me." When he turned around, she was standing, and Jurian's eye spun wildly in the ring on her finger, the pupils dilating and contracting. Every step was forced. He could have torn her to pieces, right here.

"Come closer," She murmured. Her voice was a seductive purr. Where his fury begged to be released in a roar and a rush of claws, her own anger smoldered. She crooked a finger and when he was close enough, she grabbed him by the back of his head, nearly bending him in half at the waist, and pulled his forehead down against hers, nearly a kiss. He kept his eyes open. "I could gut you right here like one of your precious deer, and none of them could lift a finger to stop me."

"Please, by the Cauldron, _please do that,_" He hissed back. "I would thank you with my dying breath."

"My Queen," Rhysand spoke up, in his usual drawl. His mask was on, that sense of smug, preening self-interest. "Perhaps Tamlin needs a rest-"

Her eyes flicked away, to meet Rhysand's, whose mouth snapped shut with an audible click. He shrugged - _Well, can't say I didn't try_ \- and faded back into the shadows behind the throne. Then she looked back to Tamlin. She stood, slowly, still holding onto him by the back of his head, sliding her breasts and her hips against him as she did. He felt nothing.

Their bodies pressed together, she pushed herself up on her tiptoes and whispered into his ear. Her fingernails were scratching the back of his neck.

"You are going to _love _what I am about to have him do to you." Though her voice was a hiss, the command in it was unmistakable.

"You always have me love what he does to me," Tamlin whispered back, equally savage.

"True. Then again, I don't always have to give the command, these days, do I?" She murmured, finally letting go of him. Then she spoke loudly, for the benefit of the Court, her eyes narrowed to slits. "Tamlin. Retire. I think you've had too much wine and have forgotten yourself."

"On the contrary, you wretched hedge witch, I've _remembered myself-_"

"Rhys, my love," She interrupted, syrupy-sweet, holding her hand up with the palm facing the floor. Rhysand did not so much walk to her as seem to simply appear, kissing Jurian's ring. Jurian's eye spun, briefly, then seemed almost to narrow.

"Yes, my Queen," He said, his violet eyes flat, his smirk plastered on.

She slid her hand up the side of his face, leaned in to whisper something into his ear. It took her a while. Rhys's smirk held, but Tamlin saw it waver. He nodded, slowly, his eyes raising to meet Tamlin's. He shook his head, imperceptibly.

Amarantha raised her voice again, for the benefit of the listening court. "Rhys, my darling, Tamlin has clearly become drunk. How unbecoming of a High Lord. Good for him he is one no longer. Escort him back to your room."

"You have only to ask," Rhysand murmured, walking away from her. He grabbed Tamlin by the arm and all but dragged him out, although Tamlin wasn't unwilling to go.

"You're a fucking child," He hissed at Tamlin as they walked. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Maybe if I get her angry enough-"

"_No_. There is no such thing as a merciful death with Amarantha. If you get her angry enough, she'll put you in a ring to keep you like Jurian. That is _not an ideal solution to our problem, _you pompous ass."

"What did she order you to do?"

Rhysand looked away from him for a long moment. "It doesn't matter. You'll find out soon enough."

Tamlin jerked his arm free and stopped, feeling the compulsion to keep moving pushing at his shoulder blades. He fought the ache and put a hand on Rhysand's shoulder. The other man turned to look at him, crooking an eyebrow.

"She ordered…" He took a deep breath, pushing past the pain. It had gotten easier and easier to withstand, over time. _You can get used to anything_. "I'm going to love it. My body will, anyway."

"I assumed. I'm going to hurt you. Badly."

"_I _assumed. Are _you_ going to enjoy it?"

Rhys let out a rush of air. "Yes."

Tamlin, though he wasn't sure why, felt a crooked smile find its way onto his face. "Can we also both assume that neither of us going to hold a grudge about it?"

Rhysand's answering smile was begrudging, but it was there. "Spring, I _fully_ intend to hold a grudge against you for the dumb stunt you pulled back there for _weeks._"

"Fair enough, Nightmare." Tamlin couldn't say exactly when, but the names, once spat at each other as insults, had… shifted into something else.

Rhysand took Tamlin by the arm, more roughly than necessary, and dragged him down the hall. Tamlin could have sworn he heard him mutter something about this _all being part of her plan, even this._

* * *

In the throne room, one of the Winter Court's courtiers stood, watching it all. Rage fought with disgust on his face, but a thin veneer of calm, like the surface of a frozen lake that would crack apart and drown unwary travelers, held.

When Rhysand and Tamlin were gone, he waited. And waited. Then, when Amarantha had distracted herself with the business of running a kingdom, he inclined his head slightly to another man in the room. The man, who seemed to radiate the golden light of the early sunrise, nodded.

The Winter courtier made small talk with a few other fae, then walked out a doorway, turning towards Amarantha's garden, a dark place where only night-blooming flowers thrived. The second man followed, several minutes later, unnoticed by the crowd.

Unseen, the shadow-servant twins followed them.


	8. Chapter 8

Lucien pulled back on the reins, bringing his horse to a sudden stop. "Tarquin, what is this? It's… beautiful."

A bright smile lit up Tarquin's dark-skinned face. "Regent of the Spring Court, I give you the answer to your riddle."

Tarquin's horse came to a slower stop next to Lucien's, and they stood looking down a steep grassy hill towards a set of ruins, settled next to, and partially submerged by, an enormous lake. All that remained was a flat platform, an immense circle that the entirety of Rosehall could have fit into twice over, and piles of cracked, fallen white bricks and columns crafted in a style Lucien had never seen before. They were white with age, their paint long-since washed away if ever there had been any. A few columns still stuck up, if only slightly, out of the lakewater, but for the most part, whatever part of this ruin had been within the lake's basin was gone.

A dry breeze blew, ensuring they never became too hot for comfort. The sun had been brilliant, but not scorching, all day. Tarquin hadn't even tied back his hair, apparently preferring to let the wind simply tie it in knots instead. Shading his eyes with one hand, the High Fae repeated the words of the riddle written on the paper currently clutched in Lucien's hands.

"_Where footsteps once baked in summer sun,_

_Creation ruined by destruction._

_I am not yours to wield, but for you I will sing,_

_Remember this: I owe you nothing."_

"You memorized it." Lucien raised an eyebrow. "That's … impressive? I think?"

"I suppose no one ever told you. I _love_ riddles. I've always been excellent at deciphering them. I was just sad this one was so easy to solve. They're… not_ really riddles, _though, are they? More clues… still. I'm_ really_ looking forward to the Winter Court riddle, it's far tougher. This is where you'll find this thing you need, Lucien, I'm sure of it."

"Where are we? I've never seen anything like this." Sticking to mortal travel rules to avoid detection, Lucien had ridden for nearly three weeks to get to this forgotten corner of the Summer Court, using a hand drawn map that Tarquin had made him promise to burn after they finished here.

Tarquin had simply appeared about a day ago, pleading the need to keep up appearances and not be visibly absent from his own court, or Amarantha's.

"This, Lucien, is the First Walk. It's not even in history books. My people preferred to forget it, demand no one live here, and hope the truth of its downfall died along with the memory of its builders."

They dismounted, as the hill was far too steep for their horses, and began to carefully make their way down. Here and there Lucien saw small white stones sticking up out of the grass. Just a corner here or a knob there. They seemed oddly regular in placement, and eventually Lucien came to a sudden stop halfway down the hill, looking back and forth. "Tarquin."

"Yes?" Tarquin was looking out at the lake. It reflected the blue sky perfectly, along with a line of trees along one side. Like a mirror, turned upside down.

"Is… is this whole _hill _a staircase?"

"Yes," Tarquin breathed out, clapping his hands together. "I'm so glad you noticed so quickly. I was hoping I wouldn't have to point it out. We haven't gotten to my favorite part yet."

"Why does this place solve the riddle? I mean, it's gorgeous, but…"

"Just wait. I'll explain it once you've seen it up close." Tarquin barrelled on ahead, and Lucien picked his way carefully after him. He'd tied his own auburn hair back tightly, but still the wind seemed to be trying to pick strands out and blast them directly into his eyes or mouth. At least he only noticed if hair got in the one eye…

Most of a year, already, Tamlin had been in captivity. Time went by so quickly when you counted your lifespan by the thousands, not by tens. Still, if it had taken this long just to get to the _first place, _who knew the time it would take to put everything together.

_I don't suppose the Cauldron intends to bring down any miracles, _he thought, as he made his way after the enthusiastic, sprightly High Fae who continued on ahead with, frankly, shockingly impressive speed considering he was moving almost entirely straight downhill.

As they came up to it, Lucien began to understand just how immense this place had truly been. The columns from far off had seemed the height of Rosehall, but as they came up to them he realized they were much larger than that. The flat platform seemed as wide as the lake, when you stood just before it.

"Why is it called the First Walk?"

"So, like I said, nothing is in the history books. Not the ones most of us know about, anyway. I only found out about this place when I took over at High Lord and was shown an extra room behind our library."

"Your library has _secret rooms?_"

"The High Lord who built the secondary Summer palace was fond of secrecy," Tarquin moved with casual grace and ease around the columns. They were warm from the sun, and Lucien even found himself trailing his fingertips as he walked. Sometimes, a white powder seemed to scrape off under his fingernails, and he wondered what they were even made of. "Basically _everywhere_ has a secret room. I have a secret _pantry _in that palace. In the library, though, I was shown the histories that we don't learn. Including the history of the First Walk. Once I learned about it, I came here myself right away so I could see… see it for myself."

He paused, kicked a bit at a few piles of rock. Apparently dissatisfied with them, he moved on. Lucien stared around, wondering how he could possibly tell any one pile of rock from any other. "How did it get here? Why did we build it and forget about it?"

"Humans built it."

"_Mortals did this?_" Lucien stared around the ruined structure again, as though seeing it for the first time. "But it must have taken-"

"Generations. More than two hundred years to finish. A man's great-great grandchildren might have seen finished the work their ancestor began. Of course, we knocked it down in a little less than a day." Tarquin shrugged. "But they built it as a temple, to a god whose name no one seemed to know even then. It's called the First Walk because they thought it was the first place that humans appeared, where this nameless god taught them to walk."

"Is that true?"

Tarquin's laugh echoed and bounced around the stones in a strange way, and Lucien had the creeping sensation of being watched. Deep within him, he could feel his glamour going about its business, untouched, unchanged, and so clearly no one was here to watch them. But still… The feeling of eyes on his back remained.

"Absolutely no chance. But they _believed it was, _and so they built it. It was much larger than this once, a whole city that was just one gigantic temple. They weren't slaves, Lucien. They were just… humans, living untouched, in a corner of Prythian. We have no idea how long they were here and we just… didn't know. They _must _have had some magic, some ability to hide from us, that mortals no longer do. They had a whole world here to themselves. This part of the Summer Court isn't even _on _the oldest maps. They built this temple, and the steps that we walked down… out of nothing. And it must have been so beautiful."

Lucien stopped, looking down at a small bit of rubble. Something glinted in the sun, and he leaned down to pick it up. He came up with a decorative comb, the type a lady might slide into her hair. It was just dull brass now. If he squinted, he could make out some carved flowers on the top.

"What happened, here? Why did they hide it away?"

Tarquin took a deep breath. He was _definitely _looking for something now, nudging this bit of brick or that with one foot. "The High Fae hid it away, because they didn't want their human slaves to know they could do anything this magnificent on their own. They wanted their magic to be erased from existence. And also because… of… this."

Tarquin had found what he was looking for. He smiled, crouching down, and grabbed onto what appeared to be a totally random brass handle sticking out of the ground. He turned it ninety degrees, the metal grinding together with a hideous shriek. Tarquin pulled with his inhuman strength, and dragged up a circle of the white stone, about four feet across, with the handle sticking up out of it. When he rolled it to the side, Lucien could see the intricate metal wires and hinges that made up the lock.

"I'll go first, to put you at ease," Tarquin said, and simply… disappeared into the hole in the earth.

Lucien's eyebrows had raised so far they might simply have flown away on their own if they weren't attached. He followed, heart pounding, wondering what they would find down here in the earth. How hollow was the world beneath these ruins? And how was any of it still standing, if it _was_ hollow?

The light became abrupt darkness as he dropped a few feet down, landing on a dry, dusty stone floor. Tarquin was already standing, a ball of wisplight burning just behind his shoulder. Lucien dusted himself off, frowning around. There was a ladder laid against the wall, so at least he knew they could easily get back up. But other than that. "How is this important? It's just a room."

"Not this room. Come on." Tarquin went through a doorway Lucien hadn't noticed at first, and he followed, staring around, calling on his own wisplight just in case they were separated. They walked out into a hallway, only just as tall as they were. Lucien actually had to duck through the doorways. Tarquin hummed to himself. Everything was covered in dust, and cobwebs, and smelled like untold age.

Distracted, he nearly stumbled into Tarquin where the other man had stopped just inside a doorway. Lucien peered in around him and couldn't hold back an audible gasp.

The cavernous room stretched above their heads nearly as far as he could see. Ageless blue light burned in lanterns that had gone untouched but whose magic had not run out in all that time. The room was full of human bones. Absolutely full. There had to be hundreds, potentially thousands, of skeletons scattered in piles and rows and occasional small mountains, everywhere he looked.

"By the Cauldron," Lucien whispered. "What is this?"

"Death. This was the death of every human who lived in the First Walk, who worshipped that god. The High Fae found them, finally. The books don't tell me how. Maybe they were betrayed. But the fae came here in their numbers, and they overwhelmed the humans' feeble defenses, and they slaughtered them for having the hubris to believe they deserved to have beauty of their own." Tarquin pressed his lips together in a thin line. "Every man. Every woman. Every child. Every baby. Not a single one allowed to live. The High Fae who led the faerie armies here _ordered that not a single person remain alive. _That strange magic? Gone, in an instant. Then the fae knocked the temple down, burned what they could, and bashed the rest to rubble. They threw the bodies down here and forgot about the whole thing in less time than it took the humans to build it in the first place."

Lucien nodded, slowly. "Above, the First Walk - _footsteps baked in summer sun. _Down here, underneath a temple they built to their creation - _ruined by destruction._ So what about the last two lines?"

"Right. Over here." Tarquin headed off to his left and Lucien followed him, stepping delicately around and over the scattered bones that had fallen out of piles to rest, a lonely femur or skull here or there. The feeling of being watched was overwhelming, now. Maybe just all these empty, bleached eye sockets.

His metal eye suddenly seemed a bit too big and he blinked rapidly.

There was a sarcophagus, in the corner. Made from the same strangely hewn stone as the columns upstairs, it was covered in elaborate carvings, abstract designs. Some of the paint was still on this, and he had the sense that it had once been brightly colored, covered in purples and reds and blues and yellows.

"Why is there only the one?"

"I don't know. My theory is that this was here before the deaths. That this whole room was built to house this one sarcophagus, and when the High Fae decided to dump the bodies here, they moved it over in the corner to get it out of the way.." Tarquin and Lucien stood before it, looking down at the heavy lid. There was a woman painted on it, still faintly visible through dust and grime. She was smiling and holding a sword in one hand and what looked some a strange variation on a harp in the other.

"I get it," Lucien said softly. "Wield. Sing. Sword and harp."

"Right. I love riddles. I thought of this sarcophagus right away."

"I can't believe we slaughtered so many humans and no one remembers. Some of the High Lords are so old-"

"These ruins are at _least _three millennia old," Tarquin breathed, eyes shining. "No one alive today, no _kingdoms, _no courts… nothing then was like it is now. Not even the kingdoms of the past. Everything was different. If you so much as touch those bones, they crumble to dust."

"Do we… have to open it?" Lucien felt his lip curl, just slightly, in distaste.

"Help me with it. I've never been able to do it myself and I've never dared bring another with me."

Lucien and Tarquin strained with the lid, and at first it resisted and stayed stubbornly shut. Eventually, though, it began to grate and groan and slowly slide. Dust plumed up into the air, causing the two to sneeze and cough in response. Eventually, though, it fell completely away with a crash that shook the floor around them. Lucien heard at least a few piles of bone crumble and clatter behind them.

_Or whatever's watching us is surprised at our sacrilege. _

He didn't know what he'd expected. A fair maiden, perhaps, her beauty preserved for eternity. A withered corpse. Bones. Instead…

There was a woman carved of moss agate lying on her back inside the sarcophagus. She had been finely, and carefully carved, right down to individual tendrils of her flowing, long hair, carved to lay around her as if she truly was a maiden in death. Her powerful, muscled physique was a warrior's, though, and not particularly feminine. In one hand she held a sheathed sword, mottled green stone fingers curved around its hilt, lying on her stomach. There was no harp.

Her eyes were open, empty green orbs. Her mouth was even parted, just slightly, as if at any moment she would speak.

"Priestess," Tarquin said quietly. "That makes sense. The books mentioned they entombed virgin priestesses in stone. I didn't expect…"

"That she'd be literally encased in her own body? That she'd look like she could beat the life out of us with two fingernails? I'd wager she rattles, if you could shake her. Bones are probably inside. This is beautiful." He reached out to touch the sword. Its sheath had carved symbols on it, ancient words Lucien could not read. He let his fingers touch the woman's hand where it gripped the hilt-

And her stone fingers popped open with a soft _hisssssssss. _Lucien jumped back with a surprised cry. Tarquin simply stared, his eyes alight in this dark place. "Take it," Tarquin whispered.

"Why should _I _be the one to take it? What if she gets up and slaughters me?"

"Then you'll buy me, the High Lord and most important person here, time to flee. Your death will not be in vain."

Lucien smirked, reached back out, and picked the sword up. It felt surprisingly light in his hands. The woman had not moved anything other than her fingers, but when Lucien looked back he could swear her expression had changed. The slightly parted lips were now a determined line, maybe the slightest hint of a smile at the corner. He watched her fingers carefully close into a fist.

"Tarquin, she…"

"I know. They _had to have magic, _right? Humans don't _have _magic. It's why the mortals needed fae help to win the War. So… why did these humans have it? What makes them different?"

Lucien fastened the sword onto his belt, where it hung easily, like it had always been there. He gripped it with one hand, pulled it out of its sheath, and the blade rang with a high, perfect note, bouncing off the walls around them, echoing and harmonizing with itself. The blade was shining, as sharp as if it had been made a week ago, rather than thousands of years.

"I was right," Tarquin said, only a little smugly. "It sings."

"_I am not yours to wield, but for you I will sing," _Lucien recited. "_Remember this: I owe you nothing. _What do you think the last bit means?"

"We slaughtered all of the people this sword was made for," Tarquin said with an elegant shrug. "I imagine it means 'you can use my sword but also go to hell, you genocidal bastards'."

Lucien couldn't help a laugh, the sound echoing around the cavern. Laughter seemed like an insult in this place, and he quieted himself.

"Let's get back up on the ground." Tarquin frowned, looking around in the dim light. "You'll need to make camp and I need to be seen in Amarantha's Court to stay above suspicion. I'll let you know if I hear anything useful. When's the last time you were in a sword fight?"

Lucien thought of Feyre's death, of his desperate attempts to fight off Amarantha's creatures as they overwhelmed the estate. He swallowed. "It's been a bit."

"I suggest you spend some time practicing. If the riddle means you to have this sword, I expect it also means you to use it."

Lucien nodded, and the two men headed back through the cavern of bones, down the hallway, and set the ladder up to allow themselves to climb back out. Back up in the fresh air, Lucien looked at the sword again.

It didn't look like much, but he could still hear the song, the harmony that had bounced off every wall. Tarquin was right; there was strange magic here. Utterly unfamiliar to him, and those like him. A magic so threatening his ancestors had slaughtered thousands of people to bury it.

"I hope what I'm doing won't end up burying _us._"


	9. Chapter 9

_Tamlin stood in Amarantha's chambers. The rooms were all the same, but the corners were darkened, he couldn't quite see beyond the bed and the fireplace. The walls were all mirrors, reflecting him back at himself at a thousand different angles._

_Only he wasn't himself._

_He was Rhysand._

_His feet were rooted to the spot. There was a terrible pressure building in his wings. A music box played nearby, a warped version of a song that Rhysand clearly knew, based on the sudden flutter of heartbeat that Tamlin felt in his-in Rhys's-chest. Rhysand reacted with a wail, trying to step forward, only to feel a ripping, tearing agony._

_Tamlin turned Rhysand's head back to look and realized his wings were hooked to the ceiling, giant iron fishbooks caught on large rings that had been punched through the batlike membranes at regular intervals. He couldn't see where the chains ended - the ceiling was just a flat glass mirror, reflecting him back at himself. The chains just… were._

Something's wrong here. Why is Amarantha's room-

_There was shouted curse, and Rhysand-Tamlin turned to look._

_There was someone he did not know in Amarantha's bed. Part of him seemed to vaguely recognize the man, but the way you might recognize someone you'd known a century or more ago. Maybe it was someone Rhysand knew, but Tamlin didn't. An Illyrian, he thought. Tattooed and powerfully built. His wings were crushed underneath him as he lay on Amarantha's bed, and although his well-formed face was blank, he must have been in incredible pain. Short black hair, the same length as she had forced Tamlin to cut his own._

_The man's hands, strangely marked with ropelike scars, were twisted above his head, held not by the silver chains but by curving shadows that bit hard into his wrists. The shadows moved over him like serpents, and where they went they left bloody cuts. The man, who must have been the source of the curse, was trying to fight them and losing. Shadows roped around his ankles, dug deeply as he tried to kick at them, forcibly bent his feet downward at the end of the bed until they rested on the pitch black obsidian-glass floor. He looked as though thorns had been dragged in circles around his ankles and legs. The man's face was was expressionless, but his eyes were wide._

Wait. Something is wrong. _Amarantha's floor was made of light colored tile, not obsidian. Tamlin had had plenty of time to stare down at it, in his time here._

This is a dream, _Tamlin thought from inside Rhysand's head. _This isn't happening. We have to wake up.

"_My shadows- stop- you have to stop-" Tamlin-Rhysand could hear the man's whispered voice, even though he was so far away, could hear him as though he were right next to him. His voice was carefully controlled. Tamlin had used a similar voice on a bear once, to calm it during an accidental encounter. He seemed unable to catch his breath enough, though, and so every word was a gasp. "Mine - my shadows-"_

_Amarantha laughed, a sound that echoed throughout the room. Rhysand-Tamlin tried to twist and see her but the pain rippled up through his own wings again and finally he held still, helplessly. "Azriel!" Tamlin-Rhysand screamed. "Azriel!"_

_Azriel __did not seem to be able to hear him. He was still fighting, trying to speak to the shadows. "Let go- let go- my shadows- mine-..." The shadows did not, could not obey. Tendrils of darkness curled up each side of his face, wrapping around and around and around his mouth, until Rhysand-Tamlin could no longer even see it and his words became simply agonized grunts. Another shadow twined around his throat. _

_Blood began to run, in thin red lines, down the sides of his neck to soak into the sheets below._

"_Every power that comes into my domain is mine," Her voice purred, but though he twisted around again, ignoring the wrenching pain when he did so, he could not find her. "You've been hiding a long time, haven't you? Rhysand hid you from the world. From me. You and Valeris. You brought your shadows Under the Mountain, Azriel. Could you finally wait no longer to save your High Lord?"_

_She was there, although he hadn't seen how. Amarantha stood next to the bed, using the pull cord to lift the veil (_hadn't he just seen through it like it wasn't there at all? Wake up, damn you, wake up), _taking in her prisoner with a satisfied murmur. Azriel was all the way on the bed now. Or had he been the whole time? He was naked. Had he been naked before?_

Wake up.

"_You saved nothing, beautiful man. And now your shadows are mine."_

_She gestured towards the place where Rhysand-Tamlin struggled and tore at his own wings in an attempt to escape, to get free, to _save _Azriel. Tamlin could feel Rhysand's disorganized, chaotic thoughts, somewhere near his own. Too far to reach but so close._

"_Now you both are mine. Soon enough, I'll know where to find Valeris, and then you'll all. be. mine_._" She looked back to Rhysand. "And every single thing you did for them, every murder, every mind you raped and left empty at my command, every single terrible crime, every night you spent with me… flogging Tamlin on my orders until he begged you to stop, fucking him afterward so you'd be able to control yourself long enough to find a healer... what you think about him when you imagine no one hears your thoughts… it meant nothing. It was for nothing. And no one will _ever_ forgive you for it."_

_He tried to focus, tried to find Rhysand's mind. _Wake up, Rhys. Wake up. You're not really here. This isn't real. He's not really here. He's safe.

_The only answer from Rhysand was a wordless scream of pain and shame and fear that bounced around inside their shared mind._

"_Lay still, you pretty thing, I'm not done yet," Amarantha said to the struggling shadowsinger on the bed. __"In fact, I haven't even begun with you. Look at him, Rhys." She looked over and smiled. Rhysand-Tamlin tried to look away. "No, no, my love, none of that. Look. at. him." The sound of Azriel's grunting suddenly hit a higher, desperate pitch and Tamlin felt Rhysand jerk his eyes back quickly. The shadows left Azriel's mouth and he coughed, turning his head and spitting blood. He stared into Rhysand's face with empty eyes. Still he did not seem to see him._

_Amarantha lifted a hand. Azriel's shadow curled up and around it, docile as a lamb. "You aren't one to give away your feelings in your face, are you, Azriel?"_

"_Fuck you. How's that for a feeling?" Azriel's voice was hoarse and thick and he coughed up more blood. _

"_Shut his mouth."_

_The shadows wrapped the lower half of his face up again._

_The Illyrian stared blankly at her, still trying to fight himself free, the only sound he could make the small, unconscious grunts of pain as his own shadows sliced him to ribbons. Blood was running out the sides of his mouth from underneath the shadow-bonds. Too much blood._

"_I bet I could make you _feel_ something," Amarantha smiled. She gestured with one hand and the shadows flipped Azriel over onto his stomach. He was kneeling next to the bed. _

He was in the bed before, Rhysand, remember? He didn't move but it changed. This is a dream. Please, wake up.

_She put a hand on the place where the Illyrian warrior's wing met his shoulder blade on one side. The shadow curled, and slid slowly down to rest there. Azriel's eyes widened and he began to struggle and thrash in earnest._

"_No," Rhysand-Tamlin begged, trying to force himself free again, trying to push through the agony of his wings. "Let him go, I'll do anything, anything, please let him go-"_

Wake up!

"_Too late, my love." She turned and gave Rhysand a smile of joyful sweetness. "You are always, always too late." Amarantha held up a knife she had not been holding before. "Perhaps I'll cut off his wings and tie him to a tree in a cage. Like mortals do with the birds they have had altered to remove flight." _

_She took Azriel's wing in one hand, sliding her fingers along the top, up the back of his neck, gripping into his hair. She yanked his head back to look up at her. "How long do you think it will take to teach you to sing for me, little bird?" _

_Azriel, somehow, even though he was still wreathed in shadows, spat a gob of blood into her face._

_Disgusted, Amarantha let go of him, stumbling backwards. She snarled and the shadows forced Azriel's head down into the sheets. She stepped forward, grabbed his left wing roughly in one hand, and began to cut, and rip, and tear it out._

_Azriel's iron composure broke, when with a great cracking sound she broke the bone and ripped it clear off his back. Behind the pitch-black bonds Rhysand-Tamlin could hear him, muffled, begging for mercy-_

**WAKE UP.**

The room was so dark he couldn't see. Tamlin's own mouth was opened to scream, but all that came out were high-pitched, hissing whispers, until he managed to calm himself. There was a wind, deafening loud, a gust nearly blowing him off the bed onto the floor. The still-raw wounds from Rhysand's flogging on his back, even covered by the salve and bandages, were a screaming agony and he groaned, pushing himself up on his heavily muscled arms.

He could still barely move. Ash-wood, sharpened to points, embedded in the knots, had been a particularly cruel trick of Amarantha's. Just shifting in the bed lit a flame up his back. _How long will it take you to sing for me, pretty bird? _

He stared around the nothing, in the dark, fighting a childish half-asleep fear that somehow the shadow-dream had been real, that the pain in his back was because his wings were gone, and the shadows had come for him now.

A spark in the fireplace, a sudden tear of flame, that vanished just as quickly. A lantern exploded in a burst of light. The table and chairs rocked, were picked up and slammed down down. Books fell and then flew into the air in a sudden wind. Tamlin heard the rumble of distant thunder. _Thunder? Under the Mountain?_ He snapped and lit a tiny ball of light to see by. The light seemed to chime, in a childlike voice, beckoning you to follow where it led. The wisplight showed... nothing. Everything around him was a swirling windswept darkness, an empty awful nothing.

Rhysand laid next to him in the bed, an expression of absolute pain written across his usually calm features. His wings, usually so carefully hidden even in sleep, were crushed underneath him.

He shook Rhysand's shoulder as hard as he could, but the small storm that seemed to have taken over his room continued. A glass hit Tamlin in the back of the head. He growled, swatting another one away, then jerked his arm back to his side with a cry. "How is _every single muscle connected to my back?_" He hissed.

He heard some of the tiles in the floor start to pop and shift and crack. "Cauldron be damned," He muttered. He leaned over, jaw locked tight against the pain, moving his hand to the side of the sleeping man's face, leaning in as close as he could, not exactly yelling, but not whispering, either.

"Rhysand! It's not real! Wake up!"

Rhys coughed, as he came awake, coughed from some place deep within himself. His eyes blinked slowly open and the windstorm blowing things around the room abruptly stopped, the darkness receded. A couple of books hit the floor with a _thump, _a remaining unopened wine bottle gently rolling away into the bathing room, where it fell into the empty tub and came to a stop.

"Wake up," Tamlin repeated, in a softer voice. "It's just a dream."

Rhysand, his expression foggy and lost, covered Tamlin's hand with his own. Strong fingers gripped Tamlin's wrist and, far-away eyes locked on his, the High Lord of the Night Court pressed his mouth to a scarred spot where Tamlin's pulse beat in his wrist. Rhysand's tongue flicked out, briefly, a gentle pressure. Every nerve ending in Tamlin's body seemed to be suddenly connected to that single spot on the inside of his arm.

Tamlin froze in place, breath caught in his throat. _Do that again._

Then, Rhysand blinked rapidly, and seemed to come fully awake. "Shit." He jerked away from Tamlin as though the other man might burn him. He rolled out of bed and stood in one fluid motion, looking around the dark room with an expression that Tamlin might have said bordered on shame, if it weren't on the face of the most legendarily shameless man in Prythian, and lit the fireplace with a thought. His wings were gone.

Tamlin watched him swallow, watched his Adam's apple move. He didn't dare move yet, himself. "You had a dream. A nightmare."

Rhysand's voice was ragged and hoarse, as if he'd been screaming for real. "Yes. I had a nightmare. Thank-... thank you for waking me."

"Do you have them a lot?"

"... yes."

"I was there, Rhys."

Rhysand's eyes flared, then narrowed again. "I apologize, Spring. Sometimes when the nightmares are bad, they can... drift."

"Have other people felt your nightmares before?"

Rhysand frowned, a strange, puzzled look. "Not here."

"I saw what she did. I saw… is it always him? Azriel?"

"No." Rhysand's voice was flat. He snapped his clothing back to its usual perfection, still breathing quickly, but his composure was returning to him. "There are others, sometimes. But it's always _her._"

"I'm sorry. I have them, too. About Lucien, mostly, but don't tell _him_ that. His head is full enough of ego as it is." Tamlin looked down at his wrist, where he could almost still feel… "What is Velaris?"

Rhysand spun around, to stare at him. "What?"

"Velaris. She mentioned Velaris, in your dream. That it's what you're protecting. What is it? Another High Fae? An Illyrian?"

"_Velaris is none of your fucking business_," Rhysand growled. "Stay the fuck out of my head." He stalked out the door, slamming it behind him so hard the stone walls almost seemed to rattle.

Tamlin sat there, breathing hard, in the empty room. He wasn't sure he could risk standing up, just yet. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Amarantha wrenching the bone back out of Azriel, the tear of his skin. _Will you sing for me?_

Whatever Azriel was to Rhysand, the idea of him being here had to be his greatest fear, or second-greatest, since...

_What is Velaris?_

* * *

Rhysand made it to the Night-Blooming Garden before he collapsed onto a bench, head in his hands. The adrenaline left over from his nightmare had departed, leaving him with a headache and surprisingly shaky hands. The amount of things he had to be worried about was beginning to pile up, faster than his usual expert plotting could keep up with.

He felt guilty for _hurting Tamlin_, for one. He shouldn't. He'd been ordered to do it. He hadn't felt guilty for hurting people on her orders in… since the first five years had passed.

He and the High Lord of Spring were old enemies, who had been involved in the wholesale slaughter of each other's families. Granted, neither of them had actually done the slaughtering themselves... except for Tamlin's brothers.

But that hardly counted, Tamlin hadn't exactly been fond of them anyway. Still. He felt… guilt.

Guilt, for his part in what Tamlin had gone through here. For being the first one to chain him to the bed. For the thirty lashes he'd been ordered to give him, and the way they'd both been such a shameful panting mess at the end. He'd had to wait to send the twins for a healer until they could get their hands off of each other. He wondered how far the shadow-servants' lack of judgement extended.

Guilt, for feeling _happy _that there was someone else to take her attention, and her tortures, and her depravity, at least some of the time.

Guilt. He thought he'd deadened himself to the emotion long ago.

And going into her bed while Tamlin healed, by himself again, had been… _it's probably best if you don't think about wishing he were there. Not in your place. With you._

His nightmares had drifted, for another. That hadn't happened since he was a _child. _He couldn't control what the other man might see or hear, and when you kept as many secrets as he did, that could cause… difficulties. Rhysand knew he might be the most powerful High Lord in generations, that if his power were not subject to her _constant clawing theft of it_ that he could have ripped the minds out of the entire Court. Could have taken Prythian for his own if he had wanted it. Which he didn't. But the principle remained...

He knew his mental defenses were ironclad. He had built wall upon wall upon wall within himself, to ensure no one else could do to him what he did to so many on Amarantha's command. But with those he cared about…

And there was the biggest problem.

Somewhere between escorting Tamlin here as an enemy who had lost his one chance to break a curse and go free - that sense of smug victory seemed so far away, now - he had started to genuinely give a damn what happened to the Lord of the Spring Court. Which meant... _whatever Amarantha is trying to do to us, we're falling right into her trap. I don't know how to get out of it. I don't particularly _want_ to._

He still couldn't figure out why she wanted it to happen, what sort of result she could have in mind for this. And when he'd woken up, and seen Tamlin so close, he'd… he hadn't even thought. All he felt was Tamlin's hand on his face.

_Something terrible is going to come from this. I've been alive too long to expect any less. She has a plan, and I need to figure out what it is before it burns us to cinders._

He was there for a few minutes when he became aware that he was no longer alone. He slowly opened his eyes and looked up, peering at them from between his fingers.

The shadow-servants stood in front of him. Their expressions were blank, as usual.

He dropped his hands and sat up straight. The Night-Blooming Garden was otherwise empty, the vast room with its strange glowing fungi and flowers a thing of eerie, somewhat unsettling beauty.

"I need you to carry a message back to the Court of Dreams," He whispered. They nodded, in perfect unison, but said nothing. The Garden may be empty, but Amarantha was always listening.

"Find Azriel. This is for his ears alone, and he can choose what the others need to know. I hope he decides they need to know nothing. Tell him… tell him we might have a problem."


	10. Chapter 10

"We have a problem."

Lucien was standing in Tarquin's private receiving room, looking out a large floor-to-ceiling window that ran the length of the room. Below him, the sun-kissed city stretched ahead, an array of pastel colors, that gradually found its way to a vast inland sea.

_This isn't on any of the maps, _Lucien thought. _Perhaps our current Summer Lord is also fond of secrecy. Or at least surprises._

"What problem?" Lucien tucked his hair behind one ear as he turned. His time spent in the saddle, taking the slowest way possible, had led it to bleach a little in the sunlight, the deep auburn now had hints of a reddish blond. He didn't glamour it away; he told himself it was because he didn't want to use an ounce of power he didn't have to, but truthfully, he was starting to like the change in appearance.

He looked… good, he thought, with the sun in his hair and tanned skin, already muscular body honed to leanness. Like a High Lord himself.

_Maybe I should travel like a mortal more often._

He wondered what Tamlin looked like, trapped down in the dark.

_Not even a year yet. Be patient._

Fae lived a long time, after all. They could afford patience.

_You can, maybe. You're not in her bed. You're not the one the other High Lords won't tell your friends about._

Tarquin stood with his hands clasped behind his back, fury in his brilliant eyes. "I need to return to Amarantha _immediately. _I cannot accompany you to the Winter Court. I don't think you should go, either."

"What? Why?"

Tarquin's usual good humor was gone. "One of my courtiers has been detained and is currently being held in her… prison cells. I have received a summons to appear before the throne to witness his… second interrogation."

"By the Cauldron. Does he… know anything?" The sword he was still wearing on his belt weighed suddenly more heavily. In quiet rooms, by himself, sometimes he could still hear it singing. Every once in a while, he thought he could very nearly make out words.

No one else heard it. He couldn't seem to be able to put it down, except when he slept. Even then, sometimes he woke with his hand on the hilt.

_For you I will sing. I wish I had known it was a binding before I picked it up. Strange magic._

"Not much." Tarquin put a hand up over his face, eyebrows furrowed. "Enough, unfortunately. Enough to get you and I in trouble at least, although I have to hope Kallias won't be implicated. None of the other Lords have been contacted yet, so they will be safe. Get back to the Spring Court. Be seen there, not your glamour, but _you_. Be ready. She intends to have Rhysand open his mind up before the whole Court. You may need to … defend yourself."

"I don't dare-"

"I will send you myself. My instincts are _screaming_ at me to get you back, that you will be visited. Interrogated. Maybe even searched. I have learned never to ignore them." Tarquin stepped up and a beam of light lit his hair into a halo. "I've taken care of covering the feeling of my power in the Spring Lands. Word will be put out that Lyssa requested to visit you and see if she could be of some _comfort _during your lord's long absence. She has been on a long trip, to seal the story. She will 'return' just after you are gone. Thank goodness she's lesser fae and not one of ours or I'd have her father demanding recompense." His eyebrows knit, the High Lord looked out the window onto his beautiful city. "Of course that's all such a waste. Lesser fae are no different-"

"Brilliant plan." Lucien paused. "Perhaps we should _actually _send her, too, just to, uh, keep up appearances? I think I could manage to be of some entertainment. I could definitely discover an intense need for some comforting."

Tarquin chuckled. "Be calm, Regent. If all goes well and I can… shield him, you may be traveling again before long."

"All the more reason to have female company before I go!"

"_Enough_. Please understand - I want to ensure she isn't actually _at _the Spring Court, just in case…"

"In case Amarantha goes on the warpath again." Lucien nodded, slowly. "I'll return home. I hope your instincts are wrong, Tarquin."

"So do I. Kallias and I have spoken. He says he needs to speak with you about the contents of the second riddle privately. I hope that means he's solved it, but with him… he has never been forthcoming. Let's get you home."

Lucien bowed low at the waist. "Lord Tarquin, your aid has been invaluable."

"You _owe_ me a _debt_, Lucien."

"Yes. We already agreed. The terms-"

"Are fair, so far. If I must sacrifice more members of my Court to her fury…"

"If that is needed, I promise you, Lord, that I will make an equal sacrifice to you in return, any sacrifice within my power to make to repay that greater debt."

Tarquin, for all his enthusiasm, his open expressions, his strange affinity for the lesser fae, was a smart man. He fixed Lucien with a calculating, thoughtful look. "I will hold you to that."

Then, he gestured, and Lucien followed him out.

* * *

"You've _already_ had him interrogated? Physically _tortured_?" Rhysand's voice was low, and sharp, and deadly. He stood on the left hand of the Queen's throne, Tamlin standing at her right.

Tamlin's chair had been removed, and he shifted from foot to foot as the ache in his back built, and built, and built. The bandages crackled, in just a whisper. Rhysand had flogged him half to death. He had begged him to keep going, at first. Then he had pleaded, even louder, for him to stop. Amarantha had ordered him to attend Court before his wounds had even stopped bleeding.

He had tried to walk there on his own power, just to prove he could. Just to prove that what she had done had not broken his spirit. That he would stand, no matter what. It had all seemed like a great way to thumb his nose... until he'd simply passed out, a bloody mess, halfway out of the bed.

It had been weeks before he could come back in here, head lowered to never quite meet her eyes, giving advice to her in a soft and respectful voice. _Not_ broken, he told himself. Only taking Rhysand's advice to bend. He couldn't stand another flogging, not yet. Not one that happened on the same terms. Just… a break, while he healed.

Although Rhysand had apparently chosen tonight, of all nights, to ignore his own advice.

"Of course, my love," Amarantha replied smugly. "I've learned, since the discovery of Tamlin's _mortal whore_, not to rely on you alone. You were hardly trustworthy before. Now I have proof you're a snake."

The Summer court lordling was on the floor before them, the entire Court gathered around in a circle. Tarquin stood just behind the kneeling man, a hand on his shoulder, glaring daggers at Amarantha.

"I protest this callous treatment of a member of the Summer Court," He said through gritted teeth.

"Your protest is acknowledged. Given the history your court has with… dissidence, I feel acknowledgement is probably more than you deserve."

Tarquin's eyes narrowed to glowing blue slits.

The lordling had been subjected to torture down in the prison cells, on the High Queen's orders. He'd been healed before he was brought up here, but the experience still showed in the hollows and fear written all over his face, the way he kept shaking and shaking, his hands worrying at each other.

"If my presence here is so unnecessary, if you have resorted to _base torture, _then allow me to ask," Rhysand drawled, crossing his arms over his chest, "what in the name of the Cauldron do you need _me _for?"

"I don't." Amarantha smiled sweetly up to him from where she lounged in her throne. "The torture wasn't for his sake, love. It was for yours. Watch." She turned back to address the court. "This Summer Court _beast _believed he could conspire against my kingdom." A hush of whispers overtook the crowd. Tarquin's expression did not change, but his grip on the courtier's shoulder tightened, just a little, in reassurance.

"Rhysand," Amarantha commanded, waving the hand with Jurian's eye lazily in his direction. "See what you find in there."

Rhysand stood, silently for a moment, looking sidelong at Tamlin. Then he stepped forward, down the dais, to stand in front of the courtier. He looked at Tarquin. The High Lord of Summer stared furiously back.

"You are not fit to touch his mind," Tarquin hissed. "You are lower than the basest mortal whore in the streets."

"I know," Rhysand said. Tamlin could only see the back of his head, but he could _actually hear _Rhysand's smug smirking smile in his voice. "Isn't it just my absolute _honor_ to ply my rough trade for _your lordling. _How he graces me with his idiocy. My whore heart is all a-flutter."

The courtier's frightened face went suddenly slack.

Tamlin took in a deep breath, realized a moment too late that the breath had been _too _deep as pain flared up the nerves in his back, and exhaled all at once. Amarantha chuckled, drily, next to him, and he set his jaw and tried to find a more comfortable posture. He had hoped she wouldn't notice.

The man's blank face gradually slackened into an expression of absolute horror. The court watched, in silence. The two High Lords stared each other down.

After a silence that seemed to stretch for ages, the courtier let out one final wail and tumbled to the side. Tarquin let him go, stepping back in distaste. The lordling took three shaking breaths and was gone.

Rhysand turned slowly around to face Amarantha. There was a flare in his eyes, above his slight smile, that Tamlin recognized with a sinking feeling.

_Cauldron, there _is _a plot. She's already had the courtier tortured. Tarquin will end up slaughtered like the last High Lord of Summer. Rhysand…_

"You should not have tortured him first." Rhysand's voice was sharp again. "It renders what I find in there… suggested. I can see false constructs. He's built them himself, maybe, trying to give you what you want. Even fae will confess to _anything _under torture. I can feel the taint of everything done to him. I wouldn't believe a thing he said."

Tarquin's expression changed, hardly perceptible, but Tamlin caught it. Rhysand was lying to protect him, and the Lord of Summer knew it.

Amarantha sat back, resting her chin in her fingers, smiling. "Oh, do you think so? Tell me what you saw. And I'll see if… my love, my cavalier, my consort… if you are being _honest with me about it._ I'll know what he was… suggested to think, won't I?You tell me, detail for detail, everything you saw in him. _I'll_ tell you whether or not you were correct. I'll even give you a hint; there are three Courts involved."

_This is a snare. _If Rhysand told her what he saw honestly, he'd give away whatever was in there, whatever plot against Amarantha he had discovered. But if the servant had confessed truly under torture, then she _already knew_ the truth, and he'd only be punished himself_. _If he lied instead, she'd know that too. He could lie and hope she didn't know, but that was a risk. Still… if he told the truth, and she didn't know yet, she'd tear the responsible people apart.

"Consider it your way to make up for your… striking omission about the existence of my true love's _mistress_," Amarantha drawled. "If you lie to me, I will ensure that you _definitely _regret it." Her eyes flicked slightly behind him, then back. "I will render you a flightless bird, indeed."

_Amarantha yanked Azriel's head back to look up at her. "How long do you think it will take to teach you to sing for me, little bird?"_

Rhysand opened his hands wide in supplication, that same smug smile on his face. "Of course, my Queen. I would never think of lying to you… again. I learned my lesson. I will… tell you what you want to know."

_A rabbit in a snare could free itself easily. _Tamlin's father had given him a lesson on trapping when he had been almost too young to even tie the knots on a snare, let alone set one. _But it panics, and it thrashes, and is soon exhausted. And all it had to do was pull back and slip the loop right off. Sometimes I think if they understood how to help each other, rabbits would rule us all... _

Tamlin thought of the terrible cracking noise as Azriel's wing had been pulled from his back, along with the ripping sound of tearing skin. He cleared his throat, loud enough to get their attention, and stepped down from the dais with a painful hiss, a shuffling step, until he stood between her and Rhysand.

"What are you doing," Rhysand hissed behind him.

Tamlin did not look back. He kept his eyes respectfully lowered, fixing his gaze on Jurian's eye. "None of it _was _real," He said, quietly, struggling to think of what to say next.

_Lucien_ would have known what to say. Lucien had always been better at this sort of thing.

"What?" Rhysand and Amarantha asked at the exact same moment.

"None of it was real, because… because…" _By the Cauldron, learn how to think up a lie, Tamlin! _ "Because it was _my idea_ to put it there. I thought I was being clever, but clearly not clever enough. I won't have another fae put to death for my own stupidity. You will have to punish me."

"What?" Amarantha repeated, an expression of genuine surprise on her face before she regained control. She looked from him to Rhysand, puzzled. "What are you playing at, my darling?" Jurian's eye had narrowed into a slit as it stared at him from her hand. He kept his eyes there even as his skin crawled.

"Ordering my oldest enemy to _flog me_… how you _ordered my own body _to betray me…" He was warming to it now. It helped that it wasn't hard to find that place of anger and shame. _Rhys, don't stop… again..._ "It was not to be borne_. _I deserve dignity, I am a High Lord!"

_Tam, I can't get the healer. We can't be seen like this. We have to… to..._

"Did you think I would be content to undergo your torture at the hands of the man whose family slaughtered mine? That I wouldn't make any moves of my _own_? Granted, I didn't expect to be caught _this_ early… and I never expected anyone to die for it." He let himself smile without humor, a bitter expression. "I didn't expect you to outwit me again."

"I will _always _outwit you, my love," Amarantha replied, in a lover's purr. "Still… I am_ surprised_. I wouldn't have thought you had it in you to orchestrate… unless… Rhysand?"

"I'm exactly as baffled and angry and… _confused_, as you are. I _also _did not think his intellect had completely deserted him." He said, a warning in his voice that Tamlin chose not to heed.

"I still have allies in the Court," Tamlin made his voice a mutter. The pain under his bandages was immense. He had to be bleeding again in at least a few places. He decided to ignore it. He'd led war bands, before. Led the hunt. This wasn't his first injury that needed to be put aside to finish a fight. "That courtier's been enchanted within an inch of his life. I had a false plot put in his head. It's a story out of one of my mother's _pirate books_. I needed to see if your jailors would be smart enough to catch obvious falsehoods. Clearly, no one who works for you by choice _reads._"

"Tamlin, you are _an idiot,_" Rhysand hissed from behind him.

_Behind the pitch-black bonds he could hear the short-haired Illyrian, Azriel, muffled, begging for mercy._

"Why would you build a false plot?" Amarantha asked, her tone carefully carefree but Tamlin could see the anger building behind her eyes. _She's been nearly outmaneuvered and she knows it. How do you like the trap? Is it tight enough to snap your neck? _

"I'm not a _complete _idiot," Tamlin spat at her. He felt like someone else entirely. Lucien would be proud of him, he thought, finally finding the words before the moment was gone. "I know you have_ eyes_. I know some of the Courts curry your favor and would rather spit on me themselves than help." He did not look their way, but casually spat on the floor in the direction of the Autumn Court. Lucien's brothers seemed always to want to be here when Tamlin might suffer public humiliation.

"I needed to know which Court you were looking at most closely. Which Courts you _most suspected _would try to rescue me. Now I know. Sorry for your loss, Tarquin," He said over his shoulder, keeping his eyes locked on Amarantha's.

"Ah… yes..." Was all Tarquin said, his voice faint.

"_Which_ Courts, then?" Amarantha's eyes burned. "Who did you enchant that courtier to believe was involved?"

"Summer, of course. He had to believe the plot was trustworthy. Of course it would need to come from his own court." Tamlin was trying to buy time. Who would he want to rescue him, if it were _his story_? What would make the most sense, if this had been one of the stories his mother had read? Who would be the friend, the dashing romantic hero who swooped in to save the day? "Lucien was the other. It had to be someone the courtiers knew _I _would trust."

_Please, by the Cauldron, let this be the right guess._

"And who is the third Court?"

_Who is furious but smart enough to keep his distance? Intelligent enough not to be named directly? Rhysand had mentioned that some of them were angry… _

"Well?"

"Winter," he guessed at random, thinking of the fury in Kallias's eyes the day he'd been presented to Amarantha.

Amarantha stared at him, her eyes veiled, a smile toying about her lips. "Indeed," She said finally, and Tamlin fought the urge to let a rush of breath out all at once. "I see."

_A rabbit, moving slowly backward, backs out of the snare before it fully tightens. It runs. It runs like hell is on its heels. _

"Rhysand. I owe you an apology for doubting you, don't I, my love? It was Tamlin I should have doubted. At least I have the comfort of knowing that he has been embarrassed in failure once again." She smiled, the confusion gone, replaced with an ugly sneer of victory.

_I've got her._

Rhysand made a sound as though he would speak, but it was half-choked and no real words came out. He bowed, slightly.

"Tarquin, High Lord of Summer," Amarantha said slowly, looking into the dark-skinned, white-haired man's absolutely furious eyes. "It was my captive who led to the death of your courtier, and I will repay you. You will receive recompense for it."

Tarquin slowly bowed. "My Queen," He snapped, each word carefully pronounced. Two of his lesser fae stepped up to take away the dead man.

"Kneel, Tamlin."

Tamlin knelt, keeping his eyes down. It was an awkward, graceless move, as every single wound, all thirty lashes, burned like hellfire. He couldn't quite stop the groan of pain. But he kneeled.

"Lower."

He took a deep breath, braced himself, and touched his nose to the floor. There was a long silence.

"Honestly," Amarantha said finally, "I'm... impressed, if only that you said so many words all at once." She snapped her fingers. "Rhysand."

"Yes, my Lady," Rhysand said from behind him. Underneath his calm confidence, something jagged had taken hold. Tamlin did not look up.

"You will tear any hint of that idea out of his mind. Make it hurt. I want the pain to leave him terrified to ever act against me again."

"My Lady, I have _already_ hurt him-"

"Clearly not enough." She looked over at him, raising an eyebrow.

"My power was never meant to be turned against another High Lord in any situation but defense. That is a… perversion."

"Then you should be more enthusiastic about it. He acted against me. His rights as a High Lord are forfeit here. You will get in."

Rhysand slowly inclined his head.

The other members of the court were a hushed and captive audience. This would be its own warning, then - absolutely no one would be safe. Even a High Lord might be twisted and subjected to torture.

The talons of some massive flying creature began to rake their way across his mind. Tamlin felt his body freeze in place, eyes widening. There was an instinctive flare of power, an attempt at defense, but he felt as though it was being siphoned away as soon as he tried to use it. The next attempt was worse. He heard himself grunt, just slightly, from the back of his throat. He tried to sit back up and… couldn't.

"This is going to hurt," Rhysand said softly, an apology of sorts.

"It had better," Amarantha said, her voice breathy with excitement, and leaned in.

The High Lord of the Night Court opened his mind to see what was inside, head tilting slightly. The last thing he knew of the world was the High Lord's hand in his hair, Rhysand murmuring, "We are going to talk about this later."

Then he began to scream.


	11. Chapter 11

_He was home._

_He'd spent the day riding, exploring his domain, reacquainting himself with his subjects, the woods, the waterfalls, all of it._

_Now, there was a slightly golden tinge to the sunlight as it began its slow descent from the sky. He was standing in a wide clearing surrounded by trees on three sides, with a thundering waterfall that fell hundreds of feet to the bottom on the fourth. There was a darkness down there, a sense that something threatening was crouched and waiting. He had decided to ignore it._

_His feet were bare and he could feel each individual blade of grass. He wore nothing but a pair of loose pants, which he had at first thought were black but were clearly a tanned leather. He wore no black._

_The sun shone through the clearing onto his upturned face and his shoulders. The sky was a vibrant blue, spotted with white clouds, the type he used to try and see animal shapes in when he was young. When he looked, the first cloud he saw looked like a bat with stretched-out wings. He turned away from the sky, then, and looked around himself in a slow circle._

_Drinking it in. Home. _

_He held out his hand and a tree popped out of the ground, the tiny seedling sprout curling up and up and up until the sapling stood nearly as tall as he. He exhaled, enjoying the feeling of the land reacting to his will.  
_

_All was as it should be._

_He turned one more time and there she stood. Not the skinny, starving thing he'd whisked from that hovel in the woods, but the Feyre he had fallen for, the one who filled canvas after canvas with beautiful works. She was smiling at him, her hands clasped before her. "Tamlin," She said, breathing the word out with ecstasy._

"_Feyre." He had never realized, when she was alive, how truly beautiful she was, had he? That mortal life, that would age so rapidly, was in the full flower of youth. She was wearing a simple outfit, hunting pants and shirt, as though she'd just come from a ride with Lucien. "Are you really here?"_

"_Of course I'm here," She said, and laughed. Her laughter rang through the trees and their song only increased in response. "I would never leave you, not for anything in the world. I love you!"_

_There was no curse. He wore no mask. Tamlin stepped forward and caught her in his arms, drew her to him for a kiss, put all his grief and his love into it. "I love you. I'm so sorry. I thought I could protect you. I should have sent you away sooner, I had no idea-"_

"_Sssshhhh, that didn't happen. None of it happened. You sent me away in time. I was safe when Amarantha came. I went to her court and I saved you, I saved you." She smiled up at him, pulling him in for another kiss. _

_They lost their balance and tumbled into the grass, laughing._

_They eventually laid side by side, simply watching each other. Her hair was a wild riot around her head, a halo of golden-brown light. Her clothes were gone, although he didn't know when. He didn't remember when they had…_

Don't wake up.

"_I should have protected you better," He said, drawing little trails around her hip with his fingers. _

"_I never let you," Feyre said, teasing. "I never let you protect me. You never needed to. You or Lucien. You had to have hope, Tamlin, to the end," Feyre responded. "And it was my choice to stay." _

"_I almost lost you."_

_He _had_ lost her, though, hadn't he? He had lost her, and been left with the ringing of Amarantha's hateful laughter in his ears as he and Lucien helped the servants put his love back together. Waited for the time to run out. Waited for her summons._

Don't wake up.

"_You'll never lose me," Feyre said, smiling, reaching out to touch his close-cropped golden hair. "I'll always be here with you. Stay here with me forever, Tam. Never leave here again. I was never tortured, here. I am simply Feyre, your mortal lover, forever. Isn't that so much better than the darkness? Isn't that so much better than anything outside of here?"_

"_Of course," he whispered, leaning forward to press his mouth to hers. Her fingers gripped into his hair, and he growled, playfully, as she pulled his head slightly back. "So much better. It's so dark below the waterfall. I will stay here with you. Forever."_

_Wait. His hair had been long, hadn't it? He hadn't cut it until…_

… this isn't real is it? Something is wrong...

_The sun had darkened, and he looked up to see rain clouds gathering. "Feyre, we should get back-" When he turned back to her, she was gone. "Feyre?"_

_He stood, slowly. "Feyre? Where are you?"_

"_She's dead," A flat voice said from behind him. Tamlin turned slowly around. Rhysand stood there, leaning against a tree, arms crossed. "She's been dead nearly a year. This is your mind. When I had to start really digging deep, when she told me to burn half your brain to the ground, I… asked your mind to protect you. Lucky you've gotten used to doing what I tell you. More or less."_

"_What?"_

"_Your mind protected you. It built you a hiding place. Think of it as a room where you can wait while the storm tears apart the land around you." He raised one eyebrow. "Are you always naked in your dreams?"_

_Tamlin looked down. "Surprisingly often, now." He turned to look behind him, at the spot in the grass where Feyre had gone. There was a drop of rain on his face. "Why not let me hide a little longer? Why did you make her go? You're torturing me, aren't you?"_

_Rhysand took a deep breath. "Minds degrade, Tam, even yours. If you stay in here too long, you'll want it more than the real world, and then… it all shuts down. You don't die, so no new High Lord is called. You just… never come back. Honestly, if you weren't a High Lord, you'd be a complete lunatic already. It's been nearly a day. As for torture… I've already done that part." He closed his eyes, looking down and to the side. "The screaming is always the most difficult part. It's harder with you than it's ever been. You are hell on my ability to serve her."_

"_Good. I don't remember being tortured."_

"_I've wiped the experience from your mind so that you don't have to." That smirk again. Tamlin found, to a strange foggy internal surprise, that he was starting to like it._

_Rhysand looked around at the canopy of trees, the deafening waterfall. "I've never been inside another High Lord's mind like this. The construction is magnificent. You'd almost believe these woods were real. Is this what you miss most, Spring? The grass and the sky and the sun? That mortal?"_

"_Yes," He breathed, looking up. The dark rain clouds remained. "Don't you miss the sky?"_

"_The stars, mostly," Rhysand said lazily. He snapped, and above their heads the cloudy day quickly became a cloudless night. Stars sparkled down on them, by the millions. "I miss the stars. I miss the crystal clear way the sky looks during winter nights. I miss listening to their song as I…" He trailed off._

"_Fly?"_

"_Yes." A wind began to pick up, a distant rumble of thunder, making Tamlin think of Rhysand's nightmare, the storm in their room. The sound of thunder Under the Mountain. "I have to tell you, Spring. Her control over our power… I did not make you fear it, but you can never speak of escape again, outside of here, in this safe place inside yourself. You're wrapped in so many layers of magic it's a wonder you can still breathe."_

_Rage flared in him, only an echo of what he had once been capable of, of the occasional mindless tempers that Lucien had despaired of calming, but it was a welcome feeling. It felt… normal. Then it died just as quickly. "You have to, I suppose."_

"_I did have to. Because you are a _fool_. You confessed to fomenting rebellion in front of the whole court, when we both know you had nothing to do with it. Besides, is going into your head truly any worse than what I did to your… your back?" Rhysand looked away again. "The other things I've done to you? I didn't expect her-"_

"_To think two men in her bed consuming themselves with self-loathing while consuming each other was better than one?"_

"_... Right. You almost sound like me."_

"_Spend enough time in bed with someone, you'll start to pick things up. I'm getting better at knowing what to say."_

_"Based on what happened in Amarantha's court, you're getting better at knowing what_ not _to say, that's for sure."_

_His head began to ache, as if merely bringing it up again let his body remember what his mind was trying so hard to forget. "Rhys, I…" Tamlin swallowed the rest of his words and stepped up, reaching to touch his face. Rhysand turned his head to the side, pressing his mouth into the center of Tamlin's palm._

_They hadn't been there a moment ago, but now he realized he was scarred again. He couldn't stop himself from the despair that threatened as he looked at the raised bumps that formed spirals and whorls and marked his body as no longer his own. As hers. _

"_Tamlin, I have been the absolute ruin of your life," Rhysand whispered into his palm._

"_Yes. You have." Tamlin's other hand toyed, slightly, with the fabric of Rhysand's shirt. The light of the moon was all that lit the clearing now. _

_"You ruined mine, too." Rhysand closed his eyes, briefly. "My father slaughtered your family."_

_"Mine slaughtered yours," Tamlin pointed out. _

_"I lived for my hatred of you, long after Azriel told me to learn to move on from it. I thought it funny when you were cursed. It seemed like a consolation prize. I couldn't wait for you to lose, dreamed of the day you'd take my place. When I saw your mortal, I nearly… but I refused to kill her, in the end, your mortal lover. I never ravaged her mind. I never touched her. And I never told Amarantha a thing. Believe me."_

"_You forced Lucien and I to _beg_ you not to. You damn near made me kiss your boots."_

"_Maybe I should have. I've just always wanted to see you and Lucien get a taste of being on the wrong side of a High Lord." The High Lord of the Night Court smiled. "It was exactly as wonderful as I had hoped it would be. I liked that mortal girl, really, for what it's worth. I rather hoped she would succeed in freeing you. I kept your secret, Spring."_

"_I know, Nightmare." He whispered. His free hand began, slowly, to undo the buttons on Rhysand's shirt, one by one. The wind picked up again. "I know you did."_

"_I kept yours, and… I need you to keep mine. Azriel. The rest. When I dream I cannot always stop the dream from… drifting, into those nearby. Especially if it's intense, or… horrifying."_

"_Do you think that's what she'd do to Azriel?"_

"_I don't know. Amarantha can't usually use our powers very well so I don't think she could actually steal his… I don't know. But I think she would try. Without them… I made a choice Tamlin, so long ago."_

"_To protect Azriel. Whatever Velaris is. The others." He had finished with the buttons, and Rhysand's pale skin flashed in the moonlight as it fell open. Tamlin pulled his hand back, finally, resting both hands on the other man's stomach._

"_Yes." Rhysand's voice in the night was ragged. "I have others."_

"_Why not just remove it from my memory? Like you did with the… torture?"_

"_Because I'm not a mind rapist," Rhysand snapped. "Or I didn't used to be. Or not to you. I don't… want to be one. That is not what this power is _for. _You didn't _ask _to be drawn into my hell with me in your sleep."_

"_You said it never happened here before," Tamlin murmured. He leaned in and kissed Rhysand, just in the hollow of his jaw, where it met his neck. He could feel the Lord of Night's pulse. His hand began to move feeling the planes of Rhysand's stomach, moving up and around his ribcage, over the muscles of his back. They had never been allowed to move this slowly. They had never been allowed-_

"_It only happens with people I care about. Which puts you on that very unfortunate list. Tamlin…" Rhysand hitched in a breath as the other High Lord's hand grazed a circle around his navel, tracing his tattoos. "I think she wants us to do this."_

"_Yes, I would imagine she does, since she constantly orders us to," Tamlin said distractedly. "I'm starting to lose track of how many times. Not that I was counting." The feeling of the grass, the sound of the trees… his own land, answering to his will. He had not felt like this in so long now. The land had not felt like this for five decades. And he'd lost even the faintest hint of it since. "She narrates every move. Brings out the things in that box. It's never our choice."_

"_I don't mean that. I think she… wants me to _care_ about you. It has to be a trick. I have been trying to find out her plan but it's… too lunatic for me, if there is one. I can't understand it."_

"_Then enjoy the trick," Tamlin said. "Maybe she just wants us to get so used to each other that we refuse to leave her. I just want to choose… It doesn't matter. Whatever it is, whatever she wants… We'll do what I did today. We'll pull ourselves out of the trap."_

"_How?"_

"_I don't know. Stop scheming for once, Rhys, and just have a moment. I don't want to think any longer." He ran his hands up the other man's black hair, losing his fingers in the softness of it, and then pushed his head down, a little roughly, to kiss him. Rhysand's mouth was always surprisingly soft, and when he pushed his tongue in, Rhysand opened his own mouth wider to let him in. For a long time, there was only the feel of their mouths together, a sense of the night air around them beginning to warm._

"_You have to stop." Rhysand pushed him away, suddenly, looking around the clearing. The moonlight was gone. There was no moon, only the clear black sky, the waterfall nearly invisible in the darkness. "You're in a dream. Your actions may not be yours. You're doing what she makes you do. A mind repeats the day's patterns. I just wanted to speak somewhere where we could be honest."_

"_I'll be honest, then." Tamlin pulled him back with one hand on the back of his neck, kissing him again, trying to get him to open his mouth a little wider. "This isn't on her orders. I am not begging for you to touch me because she wants me to. No one's making me right now. I choose this."_

"_Tamlin- I don't-"_

"_I never get to have a choice. I haven't had a _choice _in so long. Let me choose this."_

"_Then choose it when you wake up," Rhysand whispered, lips brushing his. He reached up, taking Tamlin's hand away from his neck, looking at the spiralled scars on the back of it. "Dreams are fickle, Spring, and so is time spent in your mind. This could just be a trauma reflection of what you've been forced to do. In which case, I am more corrupt than I thought, because I so badly want you." He tilted his head, kissing the inside of Tamlin's wrist, smiling at the other man's shuddering intake of breath. "Your dreams have you want things you never would awake. I won't take advantage of it, even though…" _

"_Even though what?"_

_Rhysand smiled at him. "Choose it when you wake up, my High Lord, and I'll know you mean it, that you really want it. That this isn't just your dream turning to mine." Tamlin groaned as Rhysand's mouth found its way up to the Spring Lord's fingers, biting gently down, teeth grazing._

"_Wake up."_

Tamlin opened his eyes.

He was in Rhysand's room, laying on his stomach on the bed. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, weakly, blinking blearily.

"There you are," Rhysand said quietly, sitting in a chair by the fireplace with a book open in front of him, with a tone of carefully-constructed casualness in his voice. "I was wondering when you would rejoin us."

Tamlin pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His back ached but it was a distant feeling. It was going to hurt a lot worse when the rest of his brain came back to him. He stared at Rhysand with wide eyes. "Get on the bed."

"Spring-"

"My choice. Get on the bed."

Rhysand moved himself easily, keeping his eyes on Tamlin's, until he was sitting with his back against the headboard, watching Tamlin's face carefully. He didn't say anything this time, but Tamlin could hear his shallow, rapid breathing.

Tamlin moved up to him, a little slowly as his bandages protested, until his knees were on other side of Rhysand's hips. He held up his left hand, looking down into Rhysand's eyes. "Do that again."

"Do what again?" Rhysand asked, but the smirk was back on his face. Tamlin pushed their hips together, slowly. Rhysand was already getting hard and let out an involuntary, tiny sound in the back of his throat.

"I said do it again, Nightmare."

The Night Court's Lord reached carefully out, took Tamlin's wrist in his, and pressed his mouth and tongue right to the spot where his pulse beat. Tamlin groaned, pressing their hips together as hard he could. It almost hurt, but also it had never felt better.

"My choice," He whispered. "I choose this." Rhysand slid an arm around behind his head, just along the top line of bandages, pulling him in for a kiss.

"Yours," Rhysand agreed, softly. His own voice was hoarse with desire, his eyes cloudy with it. "Your choice, Spring. Just tell me what to do. Every step is yours to choose."

"My neck." Rhysand's smirk widened and he leaned up, trailing kisses up the side of his neck, letting go of his hand. He dropped his own down, gripping onto Tamlin's hardness.

Tamlin jumped, eyes flickering open, at the unexpected touch. Rhysand pulled his hand back immediately, giving him a questioning look.

Tamlin smiled, a little dreamily, and slowly moved it back. "Thank you," He said, in something just above a whisper. Rhysand's hand began to move, a grip and then release, slow circles, a squeeze. Tamlin was nearly panting.

"What do you want me to do?" Rhysand asked. His voice was soft, just louder than a whisper, a little playful. There was something behind the intensity of his gaze that Tamlin was a little too afraid to think about. He decided to focus on what mattered right now instead.

"Take my pants off," Tamlin all but growled. "Let's start with that."

Rhysand leaned forward, kissing the spot on his neck where the latest of the bruises had only just faded. After a moment, he bit again, sucking hard, and Tamlin thrust hard into his hand, a soft, low-pitched whimper in his throat.

Eventually, Rhysand had to come up for air. "At your command, Spring," He murmured, beginning to work Tamlin's pants slowly off his hips, even while he never stopped sucking on the skin of his neck. "She's going to wonder how you got this bruise tomorrow."

"I'm covered in s-... so many, how could she even tell which are n-new," Tamlin hissed, trying not to think about her, to let her image into his mind. If he could just make this something that was about _Rhysand _and not about being someone's spoil of war...

"I'm glad I gave you those," Rhysand murmured. "I like to lean over your chair and look at them during the day. Reminds me that I can turn a High Lord to mush."

"So _that's _why you're leaning on my chair all the time," Tamlin breathed out. "Here I thought you l-loved the conversation. Rhys, I'm no good with… words, I… I-"

"Sssshhhhhh. Just speak plain. Tell me what you want."

Tamlin moved back, watching Rhysand take his own clothing off, breathing in slow, hungry gasps. He looked him over as though he were seeing him for the first time. The length of him, the darkness-paled skin, the shining violet eyes. "I want _you_."

"The last few minutes have made that fairly clear, I think," Rhysand answered, wryly. "Get back on top of me and let me see how much of you I can kiss."

* * *

If there is anything an Illyrian can truly say he excels at, it's brooding.

Azriel lounged in his chair, staring out the window at the beauty of Velaris in the moonlight below. He'd been staring for what felt like hours. An empty wine glass dangled from one scarred hand. Shadows roiled around the floor beneath his feet, a comforting presence.

Azriel was most at home in the dark.

Somewhere nearby, he could feel Cassian asleep, having angry, helpless dreams. He was at the head of an army, fighting against Amarantha and losing, always losing. That feeling Azriel understood all too well.

His shadows curled up one wrist, whispering in his ear that all was well, well and safe, as well as it ever was.

Lights still flickered in Velaris, in some houses down below. He could see them, if he thought about it, the people who still read by candlelight, or those who simply had always felt more comfortable in the dark of night than during the day.

Somewhere, above and around them, the Veil stretched. He could feel that, too, if he chose to. The thin protection that hid Velaris from Amarantha, from the wider world of Prythian. The invisible boundary that Rhys had entrusted them with, in those last free moments. There was guilt, there; Azriel had been one of the ones to insist he attend the party, to make nice, to try and forge some kind of peaceful relationship moving forward.

If it hadn't been for the pressure he and Cassian and Mor had put on him about protocol and what was expected of High Lords, Rhys might never have been entrapped at all.

Azriel had spent decades thinking on that final tortured scream as responsibility for the protection had been slammed into he and the others. Of the weeks they'd spent in disarray, trying to discern how deep the rot had gone. Of the realization that they could never leave this city until Rhysand came back, or risk Amarantha discovering them and pulling the strings of that connection right out of their minds.

_One day, _he thought to himself. _One day I'm going to ask Rhys in person exactly how he pulled that off._

There was a shadow-slither, a soft hiss up his arm. He tilted his head. "Escort them in."

It was Cerridwen who appeared first, which was unusual. She stepped out of the shadows with Nuala on her heels, both of them looking mildly annoyed, which Azriel understood meant they were absolutely furious.

"We need to tell you-" Cerridwen began.

"We _shouldn't tell him-_"

"He deserves to know, he's our lord's shadowsinger-"

"You do a disservice to our lord-"

"_You_ do by keeping things from his shadowsinger!"

"I didn't intend to _keep _anything from him, but we shouldn't tell him-"

Azriel raised his empty hand, and both of them fell silent. "I'm sorry, my ladies, are you _arguing_?" He looked between the two of them. His own expression was, as usual, unreadable. He'd had so little use for making expressions, down in the dark as a child, that he generally had to remind himself to make them at all.

"No," Cerridwen said, at the exact same moment Nuala said, "Yes."

"Well, stop, I've no use for it. Come to a decision between yourselves and then tell me - or don't." He looked down at his wine glass, disappointed that it had not magically refilled itself somehow. "Is it a message from Rhysand?"

"No," Nuala said, as Cerridwen said, "Yes."

Azriel slowly raised one eyebrow.

The shadow-servants looked at each other, and then Cerridwen stepped forward. "Rhysand has been compromised."

"He _hasn't, _you have no _faith in our lord,_" Nuala said, in a tone that in anyone else might have been a vicious snarl, but on her was one of vague, mild upset. "He has a refuge from his loneliness, you should be glad of it."

"Nuala, you will cease," Azriel said. His flat tone did not change. Somewhere nearby, he felt Cassian wake from his nightmare of sacrificing endless armies to a losing war, go for a drink and knock his water glass off the side table. When he tried to reach just a little too far to simply pick it up, he fell out of bed and hit the floor with a graceless thump, letting out a string of particularly inventive curses. Azriel smiled, despite himself. One day he'd tell Cassian moments like that were two-thirds the reason he slept so little.

"Now, Cerridwen. Explain to me."

"As I said, my lord Azriel, Lord Rhysand is compromised." Nuala blew air out of her nose, crossing her arms derisively, but said nothing more. Cerridwen ignored her. "With the Spring Lord."

"I don't understand. We know already that she has refused to give Rhysand his freedom, and keeps he and the Spring Lord as toys. You brought me that message from him before." His mouth twisted, only slightly, in disgust. "There is no need to discuss what... she... does. The walls have ears and eyes, ladies." Amarantha could not find them here, he reminded himself. Still, though, Azriel was spymaster; it was in his best interest to always assume there was some pair of ears or eyes he did not know about, everywhere he went. Even in a house he knew every inch of.

"They're _your_ ears and eyes, my lord."

"You never know whose they are. Let's not risk it."

Cerridwen shook her head, pressing her lips together. She and Nuala shared another glance; Nuala's a casual warning, Cerridwen…

"Shadow, are those _tears_?" Azriel felt the first stab of real worry and sat up, leaning over with his elbows resting on his knees, watching her.

"No, my lord Azriel," Cerridwen whispered. Her face was immediately carefully composed into its usual blankness. "It goes beyond his denied freedom."

"What goes beyond?"

"His affections have become misplaced," Cerridwen said finally. "Dangerously so."

"His _affections_ are his alone," Nuala muttered. "He would never, ever betray us. Oh, sister." After a moment, she put one her right hand, and Cerridwen held it with her left. Whatever anger they felt, it seemed all was forgiven.

"How have his affections become misplaced? I've heard no hint from our courtiers of any such thing. Rhysand plays his part, as always, to the hilt." He might have winced, at the unintentional double-entendre, if he had remembered to before the moment passed. "We are still safe. The protection of Velaris holds."

"For now," The shadows said in unison. "But if she has her way, it will not hold forever."

"You think so little of Rhysand? He has kept us safe for so long. He has earned every ounce of our faith in him."

"I think he is being led in a direction he has not gone before," Cerridwen said slowly. "I do not think he can dissuade himself from the path that will lead to our destruction. I think the High Qu-... I think she plans to force him to reveal you."

"How? She doesn't even know we exist. What could she possibly have that would put us in any greater danger than we have been this entire time?"

The two exchanged a long stare. There was a war of thoughts between them, moving too fast for even Azriel to keep up with. He waited, patiently, for them to resolve whatever difference was between them. He didn't think he'd ever seen them argue before.

Finally they looked back to him and in unison asked, " My lord, why did Rhysand choose to hide you?"

_We are undone. I can't hold back the pain. We are undone- there was poison - there is- my power is fading. Keep Velaris safe. Never let it fall into her hands. Let me die first. Let me die before you are revealed. I can't- it hurts- hide, hide away, hide yourselves-... Azriel, keep them safe. Mor, let the court keep going, you don't- need me- Cassian- can't fight this- It _hurts _you have always been my brothers I love you we are undone-_

The final wrenching wordless scream, the blast of agony he had unwittingly thrown into all of them. Rhysand had not been able to be subtle, or easy; it had all had to happen so fast. They had all screamed themselves, along with his voice in their heads, as the responsibility for the protection of Velaris had been forced into the four of them faster than they could breathe. Only Amren had not screamed, but still she had been silent, wide-eyed and strange.

Then, Rhysand was gone.

For days they'd wondered if he were dead, until word reached them of what had truly happened. The sacrifice Rhysand had made.

"To save us," Azriel said quietly, the old fury burning inside of him. Rhysand's final raging thoughts as he locked protection down on them all. "You _know_ that. Why ask a question you know the answer to? This… isn't like you. Either of you."

"Because he loves you," The twins said. "And the Night Lands. Velaris. Cassian. Amren. Morrigan. His people. That is why he stayed with her. He gave up his life for love."

Azriel shifted, uncomfortably, and looked back out the window at the remaining twinkling lanterns throughout Velaris. The people, safe. Cassian, currently swearing loudly because he could not seem to fall back asleep, was safe. Mor and Amren, in their beds, dreaming strange formless dreams. Mor and Amren, as usual, were largely clouded to him.

Himself, here, at the window. Sitting vigil with his shadows, night after night. Waiting for Rhysand, if he chose to be honest with himself. Hoping to hear his brother's voice in his mind again.

"Fair point," He said, finally. He had never wanted wine more in his life. "But I do not follow where it leads."

"She pushes the Spring and Night Courts together," Nuala whispered.

Cerridwen licked her lips, nervously. "She intends to use him-"

"He might not obey her-"

"Sister," Cerridwen hissed, "He _has_ done this thing once before."

'Damn you both!" Azriel said with unusual feeling in his voice. "Stop your arguing and just speak plain!"

Another long shared look. They turned back to him, their voices as one. "Would Rhysand sacrifice Velaris to save a love? A brother? Would _you_ have sacrificed Velaris if it would save _him_?"

That final agonizing scream. He might have done just that, if Rhysand were suffering in front of him. He'd like to have assumed he wouldn't, but you didn't do as much spying on the weaknesses of others as he did without coming to some conclusions about yourself, as well. Azriel had never felt it useful to keep delusions as to his own heroics.

Azriel frowned, confused. "I don't understand. Everyone he loves is _here_. He made sure of it." A shadow curled up next to his ear, whispering. If he'd had wine in his mouth he might have spit it out. As it was, he looked at the two of them with the slightest flaring of his eyes in his other empty face. "You cannot be serious." There was a pause, where the twins shared an uneasy look. "You _are_ serious."

"Yes," Cerridwen said, as Nuala said, "We're not sure."

"I'll need to… speak to someone about this." He narrowed his eyes, thoughtfully. "You are dismissed. Thank you for your report. Attend Rhys."

"He isn't in _need_ of our attendance right now," Nuala said, smiling a little.

"He is _attending_ Tamlin instead," Cerridwen continued, looking annoyed again, and faintly disgusted. "Willingly. Doing as he says in bed, like Tamlin is his _mate_. This is a_ weakness_, shadowsinger."

"I've heard enough. Both of you be gone." Nothing there but shadows. Azriel took some time to compose his thoughts, staring down at the floor at nothing in particular. The idea that Amarantha would have a plan had struck him before, but this was… _unexpected._ Rhysand had sacrificed everything for the sake of Velaris, a city he loved, before. The shadow-servants were suggesting he might make such a sacrifice again, for a person, if Amarantha led him far enough.

He sat there for a while longer, then stood up all at once, stalking down the halls until he found Cassian's room. The shadows seemed to nip along at his heels, wreathing his arms and legs. He opened the door to find Cassian pouring himself a drink.

"You could knock, you know," Cassian said without looking up. "Can't sleep. Could you help me-"

"No," Azriel snapped. Cassian's head lifted, puzzled. "Rhys may be in danger. And so are we. We need to speak to Mor but I… I need your advice, first."

Cassian's jaw went tight. He picked up a second glass and filled them both nearly to the brim with a liquid so crystal clear that it was difficult to even see at all inside the faceted glasses.

"Fine, then. It's to be that sort of night. Tell me what's going on."

* * *

Rhysand, afterward, slowly removed Tamlin's bandages, washing his back with a warm washcloth, pretending not to hear Tamlin's occasional hiss of pain.

He applied the healing salve, and as the ache began to numb, merging in with the welcome weakness in his limbs and the low hum of the aftermath of pleasure, Tamlin smiled to himself, eyes closed. Something had changed. Some line had been crossed. He should be worried, he thought, but he felt nothing but a gentle, wonderful languid feeling in his muscles, the vaguest hint of arousal threatening to return when he thought about Rhysand in his dream-

Tamlin's eyes flew open and he turned his head to look back. "Rhys?"

"Lie still, Spring," Rhysand said, focused on what he was doing, beginning to lay the fresh bandages across Tamlin's back, strip by strip, one by one. "You might be giving orders tonight but these are ash-wood wounds. I need you to hold still to get the bandages on."

"Did you call me _your _High Lord back there? In my dream?" Tamlin's voice still had a little of the fog of their bedding in it.

Rhysand looked up. They met eyes.

Rhysand took in a short, sharp intake of breath. "_Damn it."_


	12. Chapter 12

The Attor had come, with his creatures in tow, and Lucien had been sitting in the grand dining room, aggressively eating a plate of lamb. He'd been _so_ busy aggressively eating, in fact, that he had barely even tasted it.

He'd been ordered to stay where he was while Amarantha's creatures flooded Rosehall, inspecting every single crook and corner. Things had been tossed about, drawers emptied. The whole time, Lucien had sat at swordpoint, pointedly ignoring the two guards who had been set to threaten him, eating his dinner.

When he finished his food, he sat back in his chair, one guard's sword less than six inches from his throat, and very slowly finished a bottle of wine. He had never moved from the chair, or even tried. Only stared, teeth gritted, at the doorway, waiting for the Attor's return. Hoping no one would think to question the aged old scabbard at his belt, a sword he never took off, that he had never been seen wearing before.

They found nothing, of course; nothing incriminating even existed in Rosehall at this point, Lucien had made sure of that. Some sentries and soldiers had been detained, questioned, and then released again. One lad, found hiding in his mother's house down in the village, had been discovered as a deserter from the regiments sent to aid Amarantha, and dragged off again. Lucien could do nothing about that.

Nothing to save him. He could only sit, hands clenched into fists, waiting for them to finish their search.

_They cut off the hands of deserters. _They'd probably only take one, for a first infraction. He'd have to hope whoever Amarantha had put in command of her armies was feeling merciful.

When the Attor was satisfied, it had drifted into the dining room, fixing him with its baleful stare. "This does not make you innocent," it hissed. Lucien glared, but kept silent. "We will put a new watch on Rosehall. You will not step foot outside these doors."

"I won't step foot outside?" He hissed right back. "Amarantha might as well order me to her court, the cage would be bigger."

"Don't tempt me," The Attor replied. "Would you like to see what your lord looks like these days? I could arrange that."

Lucien swallowed and lowered his eyes, silent.

The Attor all but radiated smug pleasure. "Good. I will take my leave."

Lucien had watched he, and the guards, and most all his creatures, go. A perimeter of them was left around Rosehall, two guards on every exit.

_Good thing I won't need one this time._

It took another few days for him to receive a communication. He had spent the time helping the servants clean up, working from within Rosehall to ensure his promise to the Suriels had been kept. They received fresh chickens to satisfy their hunger, new robes had been given to all. The Suriels had begun, on occasion, to simply give helpful prophecies at random to anyone nearby. Terrifying helpful prophecies.

One had fixed Lucien in its gaze, one day. He'd been standing at the window, staring outside at sunshine he couldn't go into. It had drifted closer, a creature that normally never left the most shadowy part of the woods, looked him over, and then whispered, "You are _on_ your journey, aren't you? I have no prophecy for you, only a warning: _do not be led by the song. Trust the shadows, first_."

He had the riddles, still, hidden away. He kept them folded and on his person at all times, even when he slept. He had written down the Suriel's warning as soon as he was alone, trying to work out what it meant. The first part clearly referred to his sword, the sword that had been bound only to him, that everyone else's eyes seemed to glance off of and immediately forget. He woke up with a hand on the hilt of his sword almost every night now. The words were almost clear enough to hear.

_Fucking binding curses. This will take ages to fix, once I have time to worry or care about it._

One day, sitting in his half-empty library, trying to decide how to return Tamlin's strange letter from Amarantha's court, he felt the summons from Kallias. It spread like cold from his heart outward, until he touched his fingertips to a doorway and watched frost gather around them.

"Kallias?" He asked, out loud, into the empty bedroom he stood in. "High Lord?"

_I have gathered enough power to find you. Will yourself to me._

Lucien closed his eyes, gathering the shreds of power he received as Regent, fashioning his glamour. He built a man who looked just like him out of smoke and will, and gave it a kind of half-life. Its eyes sprang open, it smiled and bowed, and walked away to perform its functions.

"I am ready," He said out loud, closing his eyes.

* * *

When he opened them again, he stood in a circular room made entirely of ice. Or, well, glass that was intended to look exactly like ice. Maybe. It _was _truly cold in here...

"Lucien," Kallias said from a chair that he hadn't yet noticed. The pale-skinned, white-haired Lord of Winter was relaxing in a chair made seemingly of the same ice as everything else. He wore a crystalline crown. "The sun suits you, I should think. Sadly, our sun is… weaker, here. You may lose some of that color."

"I thought your people lived in great stone lodges," Lucien said, blinking. "I know I've attended some parties in one built of wood. I thought it was yours."

"Yes," Lucien said with a cold chuckle. "We live in great halls. This is just a receiving room. It was designed to… impress, rather than be comfortable."

"I'll tell everyone I was indeed terribly impressed. We are safe, I think," Lucien said with a shrug. "The Attor turned over every pebble in Rosehall and found nothing of interest."

"About that," Kallias spoke slowly, resting his chin in his hand as he leaned to the side. "I think we were nearly discovered. I think your Lord is the reason we weren't."

"... what? How? He knows nothing. I have never dared to try to get word to him."

"I heard from my courtiers that the Summer Court lordling who Amarantha captured had his mind erased by Rhysand. Cleared of all thoughts, first, so Rhysand could report what he found."

"Of course he did," Lucien spat bitterly. "That's what Rhysand does best."

"We _should have been undone_," Kallias muttered. "That courtier knew enough to implicate Tarquin, myself, and you. But my lordling says _Tamlin _stepped up and took the blame for enchanting false plots as a way to test Amarantha. Your lord gave quite the speech, I'm told."

"_My _lord_." _Lucien blinked a few times. He thought he could hear the sword at his side, a shimmering lilting harmony. "Tamlin gave a _speech?_"

"Yes. She bought it, for whatever reason. Maybe she was just dazzled by the performance. She has had us all checked to be sure, but it is Tamlin who has been held responsible."

"She found nothing at Rosehall," Lucien said. "It took everyone three days to clean up the mess."

"Good. We had a similar ordeal. Nothing was found, of course. Tamlin took a risk, and I'm not entirely sure it paid off, from his perspective. She ordered Rhysand to shred his mind. My courtiers inform me he screamed for hours, right there in the middle of court. That Amarantha allowed no one to leave until Rhysand had finished."

Lucien thought of the rumors beginning to find their way even to him. Of Rhysand's constant presence at Tamlin's elbow, of the things courtiers heard in the night. That it was Rhysand's voice that the Spring Lord seemed so often to be subjected to. Amarantha's absolute delight in it. _Cauldron. Is Tamlin being remade? _"Did he? Can he do that to another High Lord?"

"He did. Rhysand's power has always been of a great concern to me. He has more than any High Lord should… or did, before Amarantha's trick. After he took over as High Lord, this Court has always been, to a certain extent, crafting plans for how to react should he decide to upset the balance of power. I suppose Amarantha got to it first." Kallias frowned, crossing his arms, sitting back. "When he had finished his profane display, Rhysand simply carried him, weeping, back to… _their room_, on her command." His lip curled in disgust. "They were seen together the next day. Subdued. Your lord was… not angry. He does not speak up. He does not _look _up. He does as he is told. I am concerned that he is cowed."

"Not Tamlin. Tamlin won't give up. It's only been a year." _If Rhysand had spent his time destroying Tamlin's mind..._

"There is no shame in breaking under torture." Kallias fixed him with a stare. "If your lord breaks, I do not blame him. Even for immortals, a year of torture can seem like a long time indeed. Amarantha has not the long-term planning that the Cauldron deigned to give a goat, but she has always been exquisitely talented at knowing just where to pick at to destroy someone right in the moment. If he is broken by this, he may not _want _rescue. I don't suggest we desist, but it will… complicate things."

"Tamlin is _not_ broken."

"Let us hope." Kallias took a deep breath and then pushed himself up, walking across the sparkling cold room to a small, equally crystalline table. He picked up a folded bit of parchment paper. "I've gone over your riddle for my Court. I know what it means. But there is an immense danger for my people in taking you to the place that it references, and I am not certain I should agree to do so."

"Why? We need whatever's there to fulfill the terms-"

"Of the riddle. Yes, I know. But… " Kallias looked around the room, empty save the two of them, and slowly walked over until he stood just in front of Lucien. He leaned in, keeping his glacial blue eyes fixed on Lucien's. "It refers to the only safe haven we have. A place where my people are protected from her raids and her domination, if they can make it there. To go there would risk her discovering it. Then my people would be laid bare for her to more fully devour."

"I can go by myself," Lucien said firmly. "I know how to travel like careful mortals, now. I'll be unseen in your lands, if you can give me some clothes that make me seem like I belong here."

"I'm glad to hear you offer that," Kallias said thoughtfully. "I don't dare go myself. Will you take a message from me, for someone in particular? There is one person, out of all my people, who I trust to escort you beneath our safe haven, to the thing you are seeking."

"I will do whatever my lord asks of me, if it will aid me in saving Tamlin," Lucien replied. His voice was strong, and solid, and he knew he'd said the right thing when he saw that frosty smile playing around Kallias's face.

"Excellent. Give me a couple of hours to make the arrangements. I will see you are given some supplies. You will be one of Amarantha's… overseers, heading out to check on the mines to the north and west, to see that her precious metals continue to be dug out of the earth. Your disguise will not be popular, but it will ensure that no one wants to look too closely at you."

"I don't need it to be. I only need to pass safely through the woods."

"I cannot guarantee you will not be found out."

"I don't ask for guarantees. Just a chance." _That's all this riddle is, in the end. Just a chance. And a sword that won't fucking shut up._

"Fair. Your service to your lord does you credit, Lucien. You've always been his most loyal subject."

"He's always been my most loyal friend," Lucien shrugged, easily.

"Let's get you ready to ride," Kallias said, and his smile was nearly warm.

For the first time, Lucien could clearly hear the words that his sword was singing. _Give me blood, give me blood, give me blood._

Well, _that_ was unsettling.

* * *

The sleigh was beautiful.

It was a finely carved thing, a single gigantic piece of wood carefully shaped into a curving, boatlike look, settled on two heavy runners, pulled by a team of six large reindeer. The snow fell in great huge flakes outside, landing softly on Lucien's face and eyelashes, feeling for all the world like soft, small icy kisses.

"Are you sure about this?" Lucien asked. "I know you're worried."

"I am certain," Kallias said. In the snowfall outside this great hall, where a huge fire flickered and crackled and beckoned warmly from within, he was truly within his element. The fur that lined his white coat was of a soft cream speckled with black. The embroidery was black to match the fur, this time. He had a color to his cheeks that he had nowhere else. Lucien understood why Lyssa had always prattled on about his handsomeness, suddenly.

He was handsome, quiet, and cunning. Lucien could only claim to be two of those three.

"If this opens my safe haven up to her, I will have you personally pulled to pieces by four teams of my reindeer, however. Just… as an incentive to be discreet."

Lucien actually laughed, his breath steaming in the chill air. "Fair enough. It's probably the least of the things that will happen to me if Amarantha discovers us. I'd consider it a mercy."

Kallias flickered a smile, but it faded just as quickly. He reached out, putting a hand on Lucien's shoulder. Lucien was bundled up in layers of fur-lined coat and heavy woolen sweater underneath, pants treated in some way to resist allowing the wet snow to soak in, heavy boots. Still, he shivered. He'd gotten too used to the spring lands. "Lucien Vanserra, the last time she learned of a rebellion I fomented, most of our High Fae younglings were slaughtered at her command. They took ill, and I was ordered to personally watch them die. Do you understand?"

"I do." Lucien thought of the courtier who'd brought the news, his hushed whisper, the horror of it. That had been nearly three-quarters the High Fae younglings even alive at the Winter Court. Children were so rare, for the High Fae especially…

"Be discreet. Stay safe. Do not be discovered for who you are."

The glamour settled in, set carefully by Kallias himself. Lucien's hair was pale and white, nearly matching the snow. He had an eyepatch now, instead of the metal eye that allowed him to see, and blinked several times as he tried to get used to the sudden loss of vision, the lack of depth perception. He had a rougher look about him, stockier. A lesser fae. There was a badge on his shoulder identifying him as an agent of Amarantha's.

"And… take this letter to her." Kallias handed him a scrap of paper, folded until it was smaller than Lucien's palm. He hid it quickly within an inner pocket of his coat. "You'll know her when you see her."

"What is she to you?" Lucien asked, in a whisper.

Kallias's face slammed shut, his expression back to its usual chilly disdain. "A friend," He said softly, and turned to walk back into his hall.

Lucien climbed into the sleigh, settling himself on the bench. At his feet there was plenty of dried meat and other preserved foods and bottles of wine to drink. There were packs that worked as part of his disguise, meant to be the records he was keeping to take back to Amarantha.

He picked up the reins, flicked them, and clicked his tongue in the way Kallias had taught him.

The reindeer immediately began to move, their splayed hooves easily finding purchase in the snowy world. Before long, Lucien was speeding along, almost flying, as the reindeer hurried down the path.

The Winter Court was a land of snow-covered mountains, great evergreen forests. Arctic foxes darted here and there in the corner of his eyes. He thought he heard wolves, howling to each other, once, and wondered if they too would be white.

He passed a clearing and saw a herd of elk, digging up grass to graze using their hooves.

_Tamlin would love to hunt here._

He passed lodges, here and there, and the people there turned away without really looking at him before they even saw his face. That badge told them the only thing they wanted to know. _A stooge of Amarantha's. Hardly a thing to be counted at all. Better to avoid being noticed by him and hope he had not come for them._

There were camps, under the ground, where those Amarantha did not deem suitably subdued were held. He'd heard horror stories about what happened down there. It made sense that the Winter Court, whose people had been punished severely for their attempt at rebellion, would rather avoid being caught out again.

The reindeer continued to run, seemingly tireless, and Lucien smiled.

_This will be three down, six to go._ Feyre herself was the first piece, and he already had that. Then one for each court, and the last one… the last one he still did not know the answer to. He had to hope it would become clear, once he had everything else.

The sword at his hip sang in a whisper, _It is cold here. Give me blood to warm me._

"Stop. I wouldn't spill blood here, not for you." By the Cauldron, he was talking back to the sword now. That was probably not a good precedent to set.

_The blood could be yours. I would be quiet, then._

Lucien swallowed, as they flew past bushes with bunches of bright red berries. Kallias had warned him nearly all berries in the Winter Court were poisonous and would lead to a terrible, painful death for any fae who touched them. "How much do you need?"

_Only a little, only a little. I'm a part of you now, you great foxlike thing. Now give me blood and become a part of me._

"Did… did _she _give you blood?" He thought of the priestess, the stone body encasing her bones. The huge cavern that seemed to have been built simply to house her.

_She did, when she needed me. Many times I sang for her. Then she died and gave no more. _

Lucien stared straight ahead. "I will give you my blood when we find what we need here."

The sword hissed, but it was not exactly an unhappy sound. _I can wait to consummate us, Lucien Vanserra. I can wait._

"Then wait you will."

Fucking binding curses.


	13. Chapter 13

There was a small city, at the foot of a great mountain. It was hardly a city at all, to be honest; a collection small stone buildings circled around a statue in the center of some ancient High Fae hero Lucien had never heard of. The snow never truly seemed to stop, during the week and a half it had taken him to get here. Sometimes it was great fat flakes, occasionally a brief blizzard. Mostly tiny inconsequential things, that made of the Winter lands a romantic sleigh ride out of Tamlin's mother's favorite books… at least the ones not directly pirate-related.

She'd owned truly just a shockingly large amount of pirate themed romances.

The interior of the sleigh itself was enchanted, to maintain just enough warmth that the cold never became uncomfortable or painful.

When the reindeer pulled up to the collection of buildings, moving with an expert sense of exactly where they were going, he saw people scrambling to hide. The badge on his arm. He'd forgotten to remove it before they arrived. _Shit._

He tore it off in one movement, standing up when the sleigh came to a stop. "This is not the way I hoped to be seen," He muttered to himself.

Safe haven. Kallias had said this was a safe haven.

Which meant…

He dropped Kallias's carefully-built glamour and stepped down from the sleigh, pulling the fur-lined hood back from his face and letting his auburn hair, his good yellow-gold eye, his metal eye and his scars, be seen.

He heard one person call to another, faintly, carried away by the winter wind.

Then, slowly, they began to reappear.

At first just one or two, but a group of three or four. He could see a woman staring out through her window at him, a baby on one hip. He caught his breath at the unfamiliar sight. _A baby._

Two large, muscular, white-haired men stepped up, wearing heavy fur-lined leather outfits, swords at the ready. Lucien kept his own hands carefully at his sides, unthreatening. He recognized one of the men as a regular at the parties he'd attended in the Winter Court. They shook hands, warily, neither one trusting the other for an inch.

"Lucien Vanserra?" The first man asked, eyes narrowed. "You come wearing Amarantha's badge."

"I needed to move quickly. Her badge is a thing of dread. No one stops you when you have it."

"Maybe." The guard's expression did not change. "How do we know you're not a spy?"

"Because I have a letter." Lucien slowly raised his empty hands, pointing carefully to his left side. "I am going to reach into my pocket and take out that letter now."

"No you won't." The second guard stepped up, opening his coat, rifling through the pockets inside. Lucien closed his eyes, briefly, but kept his hands in the air. Finally, the second guard found the folded up bit of paper. He jumped, slightly, when his fingertips first touched it. "This has our lord's magic on it."

"Open it up," The first guard ordered.

The second guard did as commanded, scanning the contents of the letter. Finally, after a long pause, he nodded. "It's true. He speaks the truth. Besides, he couldn't have got through the barrier if he had ill intentions towards us."

Lucien looked them both in the eyes, one and then the other. "I realize that the safety of your people takes priority here, and I don't mind an armed escort in the slightest," He said, carefully, trying to think like a diplomat. He'd acted as one for a long time, now…

"I would welcome your sword at my throat, if it ensures your safety. I need to speak with Viviane."

The two guards met eyes without speaking. A hush fell over the watching High Fae.

"Come with us," The one he recognized said finally. "We'll see if Viviane agrees."

The guards stationed themselves at his sides, their swords still drawn. "Walk forward."

"Forward? There's nothing but a mountain."

"We said forward."

Lucien walked. And when they had just nearly reached the mountain, which rose with a jarring suddenness above them, the rock he was about to walk right into simply… shimmered, and then was gone. He was walking into a cave that went down into the ground.

"She's down here?"

"Maybe. Keep walking."

Lucien went.

Viviane was a woman of absolutely absorbing, if deeply chill, beauty. She had long, waving white hair that fell loosely around her, nearly to her waist. Her eyes were a brighter blue than Kallias's, and warmer. She wore a blue dress that buttoned all the way up to her neck, and was sitting at a small stone table next to a fireplace. She had been waiting for them, Lucien thought. She looked like nothing so much as a High Lady, or a Queen.

"You are Lucien Vanserra," She said, in a voice that could have made icicles crack the branches off of trees, frozen birds in mid-flight and brought them happily to their shattering deaths.

"I am. You are Viviane."

"I am. What are you doing here, Lucien Vanserra? I was told to expect you by a scout. He swore he could say nothing more."

"I have a letter from Kallias."

She hid it well, but he caught the sudden flare of hope and happiness in her eyes, a soft smile on her face. Suddenly, it occurred to Lucien exactly what Viviane was to Kallias. He'd seen that look before, after all.

"Kallias is your mate, isn't he? I didn't know..."

Vivane trilled a laugh, waving away the guards, who looked at each other and then nodded, taking their places on either side of the doorway. She gestured to the empty chair on the other side of the table, and Lucien sat quickly. "You know I _exist._ You've been introduced to me before, Lucien. I believe I was introduced as a childhood friend."

"Does Kallias know…?"

"I don't know. I felt it only recently. I believe when your mortal woman died. The bond snapped into place and it felt… wrong, somehow. As though I weren't meant to know yet. I believe it is a gift from the Cauldron, personally, that I feel what he does. I know he is safe, as safe as he can be, kowtowing to her whims. But he does not speak to me, and I don't think he can hear me when I try. So I don't think he knows yet." She shook her head, eyebrows knitted. "Strange, that I felt it when I did. When I learned later about your mortal woman-"

"Feyre."

"Yes. When I heard about her death, it occurred to me that I felt our mating bond just around that same time. So strange."

"That _is_ strange. When Amarantha did… when she held the party. Did he have time to warn-"

"Yes." She cut him off, frowning into the fireplace. "He gave me a final message. It was the last time I heard his voice, and the worst thing I've ever felt. Have you ever heard a High Lord scream?"

Lucien thought of standing at the party, watching the toast, seeing Tamlin drink the fiery sweet liquid down in one gulp. He thought of watching Tamlin's knees suddenly collapse, grabbing at him, the terror at they met eyes and then Lucien felt it too-

"I have."

"Oh, right. My apologies, Lucien, I forgot that you were… there with him."

"It's not a problem. I prefer to leave it in the past. Do you know anything at all about why I came here?"

"No. The scout said only that Kallias sent word that you were coming, and that I should welcome you as a friend."

"Do you always have your guards point swords at your friends?"

"Yes," She said, showing him that smile again. "My friends are not always the nicest people."

Lucien nodded, looking her over. He had met her, he remembered now. A party, sometime before _the _party, the one where Amarantha had ruined them all. She'd been introduced as… "You were head of the guards at the border," He said slowly. "Everyone thought Kallias was angry with you, to send you so far from his own inner court. You're a brilliant military commander. I remember… Tamlin's read your books."

"Has he?" A light came into Viviane's face. "I'll have to discuss tactics with him. It's always lovely to meet with someone who can discuss military strategies with expertise. He's done well leading his own troops himself, as I recall. Before…" She waved her hand in the air, a very slight movement. "This whole mess. And yes. Kallias sent me to the border. He felt it would keep me safe from Amarantha discovering me. He believes she would try to utilize me as leverage to allow her even further, greater control. I believe he is right, and furthermore, that it would work. So I am here, in our safe haven, giving aid and comfort to those who can make it here. There is a great hidden city. I cannot allow even you to see it."

"I won't ask," Lucien inclined his head, and she answered with that same winning smile. He'd said the right thing.

"You have a letter from Kallias for me?"

"Yes. I have two. One that the guards were allowed to know about, and one…" He found the hidden pocket and pulled it out. The second letter was sealed with wax, and he slid it across the table to her. "This one is for you alone, my lady." The guards started forward, but Viviane raised a single hand and they stepped back.

She picked it up with delicate, long fingers and broke the seal. As she read the letter, he saw her eyes water. He looked away, to the fire, trying not to think about her tears. Her smile was… fainter, when she had finished reading, but more sincere. She leaned over and let the letter drop into the fire. Lucien watched it catch, and burn, the wax running blue.

"Thank you for bringing that," She said, and her voice was hushed. "One day I will see him again. Now show me the other." He handed the main letter over. This one, as she read it, made her eyebrows knit, just slightly, in confusion. Then she slowly looked up at him. As she tossed the letter into the fire with the other one long since burned to cinders, she looked Lucien up and down.

Sizing him up.

"I know what you're looking for," She said, softly. "It's within this mountain and within my power to give you. It's an old relic from the beginning days of the Winter Court. It belongs to Kallias's family and I don't know why you want it, so if it weren't for Kallias's direct orders…"

"It's to be part of a weapon," Lucien said quietly. "I intend to bring down a false queen."

The guards near the door both caught their breath. Viviane raised one delicate eyebrow. She sat back in her chair, a thoughtful expression on her face. "How do you intend to do that, exactly? And how will our necklace help you with that?"

"You said it yourself. It's an old relic. We're in Fae land. Relics have power. Did you read the riddle, the clue?"

"I did."

_I was made for love but brought disgrace,_

_Crafted from lies and drawn from her face,_

_In snow's safe haven I am colder than all_

_A mortal soul, High Fae, a fall._

"I don't know how they all fit together yet, I'm learning that. This sword was the first relic. It's… incredibly old."

_I can wait, I can wait, I can wait, _the sword sang, in a whisper he could mostly ignore.

"I hope the Suriel told you true," Viviane said thoughtfully. "But I will show you what your riddle refers to. Stand, and follow me."

They went further into the mountain, until a fork in the cave. The right side was lit with burning torches. Viviane went to the left, into darkness. Calling wisplight to light their way, she led him through twists and turns for almost an hour straight. Lucien's stomach was beginning to remind him that he had not eaten since breakfast, and that only dried meat and the last of the stale bread.

"Are you certain how to get back?"

"Every inch of this place is held within protection by my power," Viviane replied without looking back. The caves seemed to dull, to muffle her voice. "I know exactly where I am."

She brought him into a slightly larger cave. "Here are our hidden treasures. Things we did not want Amarantha to have. There are three or four caves like this."

Boxes and boxes surrounded him, stacked almost to the ceiling. He opened one at random, to find a beautiful crown within. It looked like Kallias's crown, except… "This is meant for the High Lord's wife, isn't it?"

Viviane looked down at it, dismissively. "I imagine so."

"It's in a box. Like… old clothes."

"No one knows these rooms are here but me," Vivane said, moving around slowly, looking in this box or that. "No one. I don't worry about anything here. Unless the false queen captures me, every single item here is safely waiting for my lord's return."

"There was a piece of jewelry that belonged to Kallias's mother," Viviane continued, as she disappeared behind a pile of boxes taller than her into the back of the room Lucien followed, staring around, wondering what was even _in _all these boxes. Jewelry? Gold? "She wore it at their wedding. Came with an old family story. Ah, here we go."

Without her wisplight right near him, the room was dark even to his High Fae eyes. He hurried to catch up with her.

Viviane was standing before a small jewelry box, undoing a complicated series of latches until it popped open. Then she slowly lifted a necklace up, watching it sparkle in the wisplight's dim blue glow. It was a web of sparkling silver threads woven together, with great sapphires set into it, rubies, and other precious stones.

"What's the story?" Lucien said, softly.

"One of Kallias's ancestors was a High Fae noble whose family owned human slaves. He was... young. Younger than you. He fell in love with one of the slaves, a woman with a cold wit and no fear of her masters, none whatsoever. He helped her to escape. They were discovered, of course, and he was returned to his family's… care. They lied to him, told him that if he returned to them they would let the mortal woman live."

"Did they?"

"Of course not. She was… disgraced. In a manner I'd rather not elaborate upon. Then put to death. They threw her off the mountain. I believe they accused her of using mortal witchcraft to seduce the noble boy away."

"Humans don't have magic. Not magic that could affect _us._"

"The family legend suggested that the woman was descended from a line of mortals who had their own magic. That she could utilize it, still. I don't know if I believe that. Legends have a way of… growing, over time."

Lucien felt his eyebrows knit together. "Humans with their own magic?" The sword at his waist seemed to hum smugly. "Strange."

"In any case, the High Fae boy went mad without her. They had to lock him up in his rooms, take away anything he could hurt himself with. He broke windows trying to get to her, so they had the windows covered up. He tried to kill himself so he could be with her. He lived there, alone, in the dark, until he died. The family legend says he died of a… broken heart. A mortal bit of storytelling, there, but even we High Fae have a weakness for romance at times."

"You should see Tamlin's mother's books," Lucien said, and she laughed. Her laughter was like a trilling of bells, a chorus of them. _By the Cauldron, Kallias, she is a beauty worthy of her own legends, isn't she? I see why you won't risk her._

"Indeed, I must, one day, when all of this is done. Look at this." Lucien looked closely. The necklace was a delicate, filigreed thing, woven of what seemed like a thousand hair-thin strands of silver. Right where it would lay over a noble lady's collarbone, there were two sapphires, gleaming with an inner light.

"They say that the family cut out the mortal woman's eyes first," Viviane said quietly. "I thought of this when Kallias sent me the terms of the riddle. They had her eyes enchanted into these sapphires, her fingernails and toenails are the lighter blue stones. That large ruby I think is meant to be her tongue. The fae boy's mother wore this necklace for the rest of her life. It was passed from lady to lady of the family, until Kallias's own mother wore it at her wedding. I imagine his wife will be the next one to do so, if… anything of it is left, after you've used it."

Lucien looked at the sapphires. They _did _feel like they were watching him…

"_I was made for love but brought disgrace. _I suppose that's the mortal woman. _Crafted from lies and drawn from her face _is… that's obvious enough. We're here in your court's only safe haven… the family story… you're right."

"I usually am. Kallias would be_ lost _without me," Viviane said, smiling widely again.

"My lady, I do believe he would."


	14. Chapter 14

Amarantha had revealed the reason for her army.

It was not the King of Hybern she feared, who had reacted with cautious optimism to her continued takeover the faerie lands, had sent an emissary to ask for diplomatic discussions to begin in a neutral space, an island in the midst of the great sea. There were rumors, at court, that Amarantha's takeover was part of a Hybernian plot in the first place, rather than the official tale of her undermining his authority with her plan to take Prythian for her own. That those 'diplomatic discussions' were simply to meet to discuss the next stage of their already-decided plan.

It was not the High Lords themselves, either, who were no threat to her, neutered of power and depleted in number, with three young and untested by war and two more now her personal playthings. It was _definitely not _the Mortal Queens, who were largely a source of laughter when they _were_ discussed.

Amarantha did not intend to defend a damn thing.

She intended to invade.

"We will breach the Wall," She announced to a court that was silent in response. Some of them, no doubt, actually would have approved of the plan if anyone but Amarantha had announced it. "Those mortals make fools of us. We will build a new court in their lands, truly unite Prythian under a single banner - _my banner_ \- and rule as their rightful masters once more. To that end, I have begun to look for allies throughout all the lands, even those across the sea."

The King of Hybern, she said smoothly, had approved of the plan, with the caveat that she would need to send mortal slaves periodically as tribute.

Tamlin stood, staring at the floor below the dais. His back had largely healed by now, and as long as he did not think too much on it, he did not remember what Rhysand had done to his mind. He had tried to recall before, only to run up against a black wall built of fear, a creeping sense that opening that particular door would let very terrible things free. He'd left it alone. He no longer spoke of escape, or freedom in the future. He couldn't, even if he tried.

He had nightmares, though. More than before. And they were getting worse.

He had been in more of Rhysand's nightmares, too. It had never occurred to him, in those fifty years Rhysand had been trapped here (_nearly fifty-one, now_), how afraid he had been that the delicate balance he'd maintained by going to her bed would be undone. That there had been people even Rhysand loved, hiding in the Hewn City or somewhere in the Night Court's lands.

He read his books, working his way through them. He'd had a few sent back to the Spring Court as he finished them, and Lucien had sent more. They never came with any notes. It was as if Lucien were simply following orders by rote these days. No letters. No communications of a personal nature. However close their friendship, he thought, Lucien had gone largely silent now.

_Perhaps he's never forgiven me for choosing not to say goodbye to him, _Tamlin thought, uneasily. It occurred to him, occasionally, that he hadn't exactly been someone who gave devotion back to those who gave it to him.

"Will my people no longer be subject to your camps, when the invasion is finished?" That was Kallias, a quiet and deadly blizzard in the back, the sort of snow that seemed like nothing to worry about at first, only to build and build until it buried whole towns in heavy white.

"Will you act with loyalty to me, Kallias?" Amarantha asked, eyebrow raised.

"I am not loyal to you," Kallias said firmly. "Consider it a sign of respect to your power that I choose not to lie about it. But I _am_ in your thrall. I want to know if I choose to go along with this without being forced to, if there would be any reward in it for me… for my people. The Winter Court has been… hurt, by past actions with regards to you. I want to position myself more effectively."

"When Prythian is mine, I will set every subject of the Winter Court free who is currently detained," Amarantha said, enunciating each word. "All I ask is that you will not act against me. I must have courts who understand their place."

Kallias nodded, slowly. Tamlin wondered, briefly, about the plot Rhysand had found in that courtier's mind - and an immediate cold grip on his heart made him remember that he was no longer able to even think about a plan to escape. "I will consider my lady's offer. It is a generous one."

"I know," Amarantha replied, smugly. "And it goes for all of you, for every court in my kingdom. Work with me willingly to retake the mortal lands, and those of your people I have detained will be set free to return to their homes. Those whose courts are known for great deeds in battle may… discover their High Lords able to do more than simply maintain their lands."

There was a sudden rush of whispers throughout the assembled court. Amarantha had just offered to give some of the High Lords an element of their powers back.

She dismissed the conversation then, letting the courtiers discuss amongst themselves. After a moment, she stood up, stepping up next to Tamlin, trailing her fingertips up his arm, over his shoulder, around behind his neck, down the other side. She kept her hand up, hovering slightly in the air.

Tamlin turned toward her and, without looking up, took her hand in his and kissed the back of it. "My Queen," He whispered, with an empty voice. "You are radiant tonight."

"I usually am. Learned your lesson these days, have you? Looking to give the Spring Lands back some of the awe-inspiring power they once had? Or do you simply miss being in my bed?"

"I think we both know I don't," He whispered. _Bend, _don't beak. Rhysand's advice, and he had finally learned to take it. To not look too closely at the scars left behind by the punishments she'd ordered Rhysand to give him, those on his back, or those in his head.

She raised an eyebrow. Then she leaned up in his ear. "Your desire for him will torment you until it is sated."

He felt the stir immediately and nearly lost his balance, taking in a deep breath. "With you?" He asked, softly.

"Later, with me. I want you both tonight. I so enjoy when you are both in my bed. There is absolutely no feeling on Prythian like two High Lords burying themselves in you... Tell you what, my darling, you can buy time with him, though. Or perhaps you'd rather things move a bit faster, although in that case I'll need to see you begging me to take you right there before my throne." A little shiver went up his back at the thought, even as her smile grew wider. "Oooh, wouldn't that be lovely? You, on your knees, hard as rock, begging for me right in front of all these people you wanted so badly to impress, your entire life?"

"Why?" He'd have to move, soon. When she touched his neck again his nerves lit up with fire. "Why right now, Amarantha? Why him? Why not take me back to your rooms right now? We could leave Rhysand behind this time." His lips barely moved as he spoke. _Give him a rest. Just don't hurt him for one night._ He was afraid if he did more than whisper that more sound than he intended might escape.

"Oh no, my darling, it's definitely going to be both of you. Just wanted to remind you that you belong to me. You _rise _at my _command, _love. As does he. Don't think what you get up to in your room is lost on me. I am well aware. I don't mind a dalliance, Tamlin my love. What you do with each other will only make you _better _with me… but your _manhood _is mine. And it will go where I please. As will his. "

Rhysand was in his usual place, leaning against the wall behind her throne, wreathed in shadow. He could not quite hear them, but Tamlin could see him watching them with the empty smile he was so perfectly experienced at utilizing as a mask.

Her hand slid down his back and his eyes widened. "So go please him."

Then she walked away, and a small crowd of hangers-on went to follow where she led. Tamlin stood, breathing in harsh gasps, almost panting, trying to control himself. He managed to keep his face an empty, disinterested mask, but it took more effort than it should. Whenever he had nearly managed to push it down entirely, he felt the slow beginnings of the pain he felt every time he fought back against a direct command. If he didn't, though, he was worried that his body's betrayal might become… visibly obvious through the loose, flat black pants he wore.

That meant exactly one option.

He turned around to catch Rhysand's eye, and jerked his head slightly to the side. No one was looking at them - they were discussing Amarantha's announcement of an upcoming invasion, her uncharacteristic offer trying to gain favor from the High Lords, or they were simply following her. No one looked at him. He thought.

He walked away, incredibly uncomfortable. His shirt and pants had become maddening, sliding across his skin, lighting up every nerve ending. He felt like a mortal drunk on faerie wine. He couldn't stop himself from wishing they were in her rooms, so he was less obvious, less visible, so that Rhysand could close those shackles on his wrists-

"What's wrong?" He heard from behind him. He spun around to see Rhysand, looking genuinely concerned. Tamlin's gaze bounced around, a little desperately, before he found the door to a closet, some small storage space but…

Tamlin let a harsh breath out through his nose.

"Spring?" Rhysand asked, softly. "You told me to follow you."

Tamlin jerked the door to the closet open, grabbed Rhysand by one arm, and shoved him inside.

"What in nine hells..." Rhysand blinked, spinning back around to face him, hands up. "Tam, what the fuck are you-"

He was on him in an instant, hands on his face, forcing a desperate, savage kiss on him that nearly hurt them both, tearing at his clothing. Rhysand mumbled a protest but soon enough melted himself into Tamlin's mouth, shivered under his tearing hands. This was a version of Tamlin he had not seen; Rhysand had never been present for the part of Tamlin that had felt more free to desire someone, when it had been less twisted up in shame, when it was only a physical feeling, the beast.

The way he'd slept with Feyre, he thought, as he shoved Rhysand's back against a wall and dropped to his knees.

"Tamlin, talk to me," Rhysand growled down at him, pushing him away. "What is going on?"

Tamlin breathed in and out, trying to focus, to force himself to stop. His fingers were still out, wanting so badly to do as he'd been ordered. "Rhys, she-... I want you - I want to- she wants me in her bed later but told me I could… buy time… with you. Or I'll… I'll beg her. I'm so- I need to touch-"

"Sssshhh," Rhysand said, with understanding dawning in his eyes. "Sssshhh."

"I need you to touch you," Tamlin murmured. "I need to touch you. I need to-"

"Sssshh."

Tamlin's fingers untied the laces and undid the buttons on Rhysand's pants, freeing him, panting as he took Rhysand in his hands. The Lord of the Night Court leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, swallowing with an audible 'click' in his throat.

For a while, neither of them said a word. Tamlin could feel Rhys's slow arousal, hardening as he ran his tongue from base to tip. Rhysand groaned, only the slightest sound, but Tamlin could see his hands curl into fists, his eyes open and staring sightlessly up at the ceiling. He had no idea what he was doing, with hand or mouth, but desire more than made up for it. He licked, a little more, trying to stop the pounding of his heart, and then took Rhys in as far as he could, into his mouth. With his hands curved around Rhysand's hips, the only sound was Tamlin's movements and Rhysand's gasping breath, his tiny whispered moans. His hand twisted through Tamlin's hair, grabbing tightly, holding it still when he thrust forward, beginning to help him with where to move and when.

"Deeper," Rhysand whispered.

"Can't," Tamlin replied, pulling back slightly, kissing the flat space just inside his hipbone, trailing his tongue along his pelvis.

"Yes you can," Rhysand said, in a low voice. "Try again. Take more. Deeper."

They were silent for a while again, after that. Tamlin wanted to keep doing this forever. He wanted Rhysand to do the same to him. He wanted Rhysand in him, on him, forever. His body was nothing but nerve endings, every one of them determined to make it last longer, this feeling, this pleasure. Eventually, as Rhysand began to move faster and faster in his mouth and his own body felt close enough that he could hardly stand it, Tamlin pulled back, sitting back on his heels, breathing in deeply. He could still taste Rhysand. He wanted to taste him forever.

_She told you to want that. Not your choice._

"I'm not done yet," Rhysand murmured.

"Now you know how_ I_ feel," Tamlin replied, smiling slightly as he heard the other man laugh.

"Get up here." Rhysand trailed his fingers down as Tamlin slowly stood, playing his fingers over his collarbone, down the center of his chest, trailing to his navel. "You can buy time, can you? How much time? Before we go with her?"

"I don't know how much. I don't know. I don't-"

"Ssssshhhh," Rhysand said again. "It doesn't matter. Let's buy time. Our bodies are our own, Spring."

"_And_ hers," Tamlin murmured.

"For now," Rhysand said softly, and took Tamlin into his hand. Tamlin gasped and fell forward against him, his face buried in the side of Rhysand's neck. "For now. We are High Fae, Tam - we can wait a long time."

Tamlin looked up and kissed him, pressing his lips softly to Rhysand's. When his tongue found its way into the other man's mouth, only _then _did Rhysand move his hand as well.

"What I do right now is going to depend _heavily_ on how well you kiss," Rhysand said, softly into his mouth.

"Sounds like a challenge," Tamlin growled. "Good thing I've been paying attention."

Their mouths met, again, and Tamlin slid his free hand behind Rhysand's neck. After a moment, he felt his fingers brush the soft membrane of one of Rhysand's wings, pulling back to look with wonder as he realized Rhys had let them show on purpose. He smiled, a little wickedly, and ran all five fingers down that warm, leathery thin skin. The other man shivered, moaning, muffled by the kiss. "Can you, just from touching your wings?" Tamlin whispered.

Rhysand grinned, that same smirk but with every ounce of feeling in it real. "I dare you to find out."

* * *

Later that night, long after they'd returned to court and tried to ignore Amarantha's smug expression as she greeted them loudly, bringing attention to the fact that they had left together even if she did not actively suggest why, long after they'd spent the rest of their time in court catching themselves making each other laugh, acting more like friends than enemies, than Amarantha's playthings…

Later, when he was deep in Amarantha and she, laying on her stomach, groaned and writhed, as he worked to give her so much pleasure she would not think to hurt him, he did not look at her. Tamlin kept his eyes on Rhysand, who was the one chained to the wall tonight. Amarantha had taken him into her mouth and Tamlin had a hard time not watching, trying to focus on the way the tattoos seemed almost to move. It had been _him_ with Rhysand in his mouth, earlier, he thought.

Rhysand's gaze met his, and he knew the other man was thinking the same thing.

With Amarantha between them, commanding them on what to do and what to touch and when, they had eyes only for each other.

_Exactly how she wanted it_.


	15. Chapter 15

In the Day Court, Lucien was on his own.

The High Lord of the Day Court, Helion Spell-Cleaver, had simply refused to help him. Not out of spite, or any malice, but, he said, because he felt he was still under surveillance, and he did not want to take a risk.

Amarantha had made an offer, his emissary had told Lucien, when Lucien had been winnowed in still protected by Kallias's power, shielded from Amarantha's direct notice. Any Court that allied directly with her in the upcoming invasion of the mortal lands would see rewards that the lords were hard-pressed to refuse.

Their people, _permanently_ set free from underground camps. That alone would be hard for the solar courts to reject, whose people were even more affected than most by the loss of the sky and the light. Even more, the emissary had whispered, she had offered to give the High Lords some of their power back. Not enough to hurt her or threaten her rule, of course, but… "But you must understand," The dark-skinned, dark-haired emissary had said, apologetically. "Helion must consider the benefits or risks of this before taking a direct action against her again."

Lucien, knowing diplomacy was sometimes simply a way to stab each other with words instead of knives, had only nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. He could not push any of the High Lords further than they wanted to go. That offer from Amarantha… he knew even Tamlin would have wanted time to consider it.

You had to keep the health of the land in mind. He'd have to go back to the Spring Court and be seen deliberating over it. His glamour could not do that well enough on its own, not enough to make a decision.

But first, he wanted to solve the riddle that involved the day court.

The Day court, which like most of the courts had the great sea on either side of it, had a large section in the center which was essentially a desert. And that was where Lucien intended to go.

Helion had been kind enough to grant a horse and supplies, especially water, to keep him going when he was far enough inland that clear fresh water might become scarce. While the sun was… similar here, to the Summer Court, the Day Court's heat was blazing. The sun seemed larger in the sky here than elsewhere, hung closer to them, gave a strange red-gold tinge to the light that made Lucien nervous. The sky was clear while he rode, with only the occasional calls of birds for a soundtrack.

That, and the song of the sword at his hip.

He had given it what it wanted. After he'd taken the necklace back to hide in the mausoleum with Feyre's body, snuck it in there without even alerting the servants as to his presence in the Spring Court, fastened it around her neck. She had been sewn together roughly by panicked servants on his shouted, tear-filled orders. Everything looked as though she had died only moments prior. Her skin was still lukewarm and pliable to the touch. The heavy black stitches marred her at her arms and legs where she lay on a stone table, hands folded over her flat stomach. The stitches ran along her stomach where Amarantha had simply torn her top half from her bottom half. They twisted up her neck and sewed back together the part of her face that, after she was already dead, Amarantha had ripped into a horrific wide grin.

He had fastened the necklace around her throat and thought it looked obscene there, the sapphire eyes of the mortal woman executed for love (and possibly for ensorcelling a High Fae to love her literally until it killed him) staring up at him from atop her shattered, sewn-up body.

"Wait for me, hellcat," He'd whispered with a smile, bowed to her slightly. The sword's song had gone quiet, in here. As if it understood her importance, too, somehow. "You and Tamlin have to wait."

Standing there at Feyre's grave, inside her mausoleum, looking right at her body, he had unsheathed the sword and set free its song, listening to its harmonies bounce off the close walls, crashing into each other, a cacophony of sound. Then he'd held out his hand and used the sword to slice it open.

As the blood welled up, the sword drank it in. He bled, and bled, and bled. Then, just as quickly as he had cut himself, the wound was healed and gone.

He felt… whole, suddenly. He hadn't realized he was empty before, but now the song of the sword was a constant reassurance at the back of his mind. The sword had whispered, _for you I will sing_, and Lucien had felt something snap into place, a satisfaction in who he was that he had not had in a very, very long time.

_I will sing for you. I will save you._

Then, he'd let Kallias know he was ready to visit the Day Court. And without Helion's help, he had picked his way through the land. The longer it took him to finish each task, he thought, to locate the piece of the puzzle, the longer Tamlin would be trapped Under the Mountain.

_What would Tamlin do, if he were in my place? Would he come to rescue me?_

Lucien was worried when he considered that he did not entirely know the answer to the question. Tamlin was all about rules and tradition. He'd ruined himself on them, by refusing to adapt or to change when the curse was laid in place. He all but sat for fifty years simply waiting for time to run out.

If Lucien had been traded over like Rhysand for Amarantha's depravations, would Tamlin have simply allowed him to suffer, like those in the Night Court had abandoned their High Lord?

He wondered if anything had changed, in the year Tamlin had been in Amarantha's clutches. If Tamlin had changed, based on the rumors he was hearing. Only rumors, but still.

He wondered, occasionally, if he would find Tamlin's mind so altered by Rhysand in service to Amarantha as to become unrecognizable.

_Save it for the Night Court, _he thought to himself. _You can get some concessions out of them, or something._

He rode and rode, as trees turned to grassland, which finally turned to scrub brush, and then, eventually, he saw the edge of the Glass. The legend was that the desert had once been part of a cataclysmic magical battle between a High Fae and another being, of a power never again seen in the world. That their war, fought only between the two of them, had razed the once-fertile land and burned everything until it melted into glass, then shattered the glass so finely it became sand.

The Glass was, perhaps, the most beautiful certain death he had ever seen.

The white-cream dunes of the desert undulated on every side of him, stretching away to the horizon. Everything in it shimmered, with pools of fresh water just out of reach, begging him to ride out for a drink. None of those pools were real, and any poor soul who was stupid enough to listen to their call would find himself dying of thirst quickly, indeed.

Lucien had done his reading, though. He knew the story of the Glass. And he knew what he wanted was here.

He dismounted, his horse shying nervously away from the edge, and took the offering out of his saddlebag. "Just stay calm," he whispered to it, and the horse nickered softly. They had gotten along well in the weeks it'd taken him to ride this far. He really was getting to be excellent at mortal travel.

In the Day Court, the sun-speckled hair he'd gained while living in the Summer Court had bleached even further, to something closer to the strawberry blond his brothers had mocked him endlessly for when he was a child. His skin had darkened, setting off his golden eyes. He nearly looked like a creature made of gold by now, he thought. Tamlin wouldn't even recognize him.

He stood at the edge, where dirt and scrub became, in a solid line, the tiny grains of glass. He held up his offering, an urn filled with water from the pool of starlight in the Spring Court. "To the Spirit of the Glass, I ask for safe passage," He shouted out, his words swallowed and swept away by the hot winds that seemed to kick up right at the desert's edge. "I bring starlight, and a story."

The Spirit of the Glass, the books said, was a sucker for a good story. And Lucien thought he was in the middle of a more-than-adequately interesting tale.

For a while, all he heard was the whistling wind. His horse lowered its head, delicately picking the leaves off of the scrub, curling its lips so its teeth could get the good stuff away from the tough stems.

"I said-" He started.

"_I heard you._" The voice was a slither, a whisper-hiss of the wind, everywhere and nowhere at once. "_Do you know how long it has been since anyone has brought me a story?_"

"I'm going to guess… a good long while? Because you're a terrifying disembodied voice?"

A pause. Then, that sibilant, hissing wind laughed.

"_Oh, I _like_ you,_" It answered, and the woman was before him. She had skin as dark as Helion's, white hair that exactly matched the glassy desert that spread all around them, but her skin was ageless and without wrinkles. She was naked, but he couldn't seem to focus on any part of her body but her face. The nakedness, on her, was like a kind of clothing anyway. Her eyes were purely white, with no iris or pupil to speak up. They glittered. Something else about her was off, and it took Lucien a second to realize what.

Her ears were curved, not pointed. Her limbs were short.

"You're human," He gasped. "Mortal."

"_No. I was those things and am no longer, although I suppose in other times I am still mortal and have been dead and turned to bone. I have not been mortal in millenia. You are High Fae. I see three of you; one prepares to betray his lord in order to protect a friend. She is a beautiful woman who lives in fear of subjugation. One of you currently lives in that same subjugation, suffering exquisite torment and horrible pleasure at the hands of a false queen. And then the final one stands before me. On a journey. No one has come here to give me an offering in centuries. They fear the Spirit of the Glass. Probably… because I am a terrifying disembodied voice._" She had a smile on her dark, ageless face.

Lucien stared at her in silence, blinking, then managed, "I… did you just throw my joke back at me? You have a sense of _humor_?"

She laughed again, and gestured behind her at the deadly desert_. "Will you come with me? My home will not be far, for you. I grant you safe passage through the Glass. Your offering is acceptable for entrance._"

He watched the wind blow sand away, the dunes rolling over themselves, moving back and back and back until a path of bare dirt went straight into the desert until it hit the horizon and disappeared.

"Are you bound by fae law, that you must live by what you say? And my exit…?"

"_I am not bound by any law but the law of the Glass. But I do not intend to add your bones to my collection before you've had a chance to show me whether you are what you claim to be. Whether or not you leave alive has to do with how much I like your story._"

"Well, if you don't mind me bragging about it, I think you'll agree it's a good one. Plus… you'll get to be in it."

The smile on her face made it something beautiful, but an unsettling, inhuman, unfae kind of beautiful. She was something else entirely, and he both thought she was gorgeous and feared her so deep in his soul that he could not have put words to it. The fear was primal. She could unmake him with a thought. But when she gestured to the path, he glanced back at his horse. "Should I bring…"

"_Leave it. You will find it cared for and right here when you come out. _If_ you come out. If you don't, I'll feed it to my children. There are many spirits who live in the Glass and not much for them to eat._"

Lucien took a deep breath and stepped forward onto the path. As he followed the Spirit, the dunes were swept back in behind him, and before he had walked for ten minutes he could no longer see his horse or the way they had come.

He would have to trust an inhuman mortal spirit that had a god's power over this desert.

But the riddle had led him here. And he wasn't about to give up now.

The Spirit led him along the path for what seemed like only a few minutes or perhaps a few hours. Sometimes he thought he could see himself in the Glass that stretched around him, other versions of him. Versions where his auburn hair was still dark. In one, he sat at the grand dining table at the Spring Court while Tamlin and Feyre argued with each other, trying to convince them to simply _speak _to one another. In another, he rode to war. Further on, he caught out in the corner of his eyes a vision of himself, kneeling before Amarantha's throne, swearing fealty.

There was one vision where he wore chains and could almost hear the sound of tears carried by the wind. He did not look too closely.

Some of the versions of him were older or younger. They appeared in the mirage, wavering delusions, and then were gone when he came close enough.

"How much further?"

"_Not much, for you. An eternity, for those I do not favor._"

"Fair enough," he mumbled in answer, cutting his eyes away from a vision of himself, proposing to a lesser fae, the happy laughter as they embraced when she said yes.

A moment where he stood, staring with horror, at what they'd done to the same beautiful girl.

_Dead, because I was too stupid to realize they'd never let me marry her._

Finally, the Spirit of the Glass came to a stop, and Lucien was standing before an oasis.

There was a pond of shimmering pure water, about the size of a smallish fishing pond back at the Spring Court. Palm trees soared above it, their strange thick triangular bark marking a pattern up to a spray of wide fern-like leaves at the top. There was shade, here, and where there was shade there was grass. He moved forward into it, staring around with wide eyes.

Next to the pond was a simple wooden bench, with a colorful tent behind it. There were designs in the tent, sewn in, that seemed to be a language. He thought it looked a little like the carvings on the sarcophagus below Tarquin's beautiful ruins. He looked in, but saw nothing inside the tent at all. "What is this? Do you live here?"

"_I built it for you as we walked. The Glass is my home, High Fae, I have no need of dwellings beyond it, or water, any longer. I do miss wine, on occasion. I think I can conjure food, later if you describe it to me. It's… been so long. I have a hard time remembering what living things eat._"

"What do you eat?" Lucien asked, a little nervously, hoping the answer wouldn't be 'the dumbass High Fae who think they can just waltz in.'

"_Nothing, Lucien Vanserra. I am dead. But I drink starlight._"

"You know what, that's one I probably should have guessed." He took a seat on the bench, groaning with happiness at not being on a horse or walking. The breeze here was not hard, and unforgiving. It was gentle, and cooling, and welcome. "First, I should give you the starlight." He held out the urn. She took it from him, her fingers as they brushed over his dry and hot, hissing over his skin like the sound of the wind.

He jerked his hands back, more from surprise than anything else. She opened the top of the urn, looked down into it, and then drank, deeply. Some of the starlight ran out the sides of her mouth and soaked into the grass beneath them.

As she drank, Lucien watched her, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

Finally, she set the empty urn down on the ground. "_Wonderful. We used to call them down, you know, to give the light directly. Fresher that way. But this serves well._" She wiped her mouth clean and then looked down at him. Or he thought she did. She fixed those wide, pure-white eyes in his general direction at least. "_Now. You said you have a story to offer._"

Lucien picked up the last canteen of water he'd brought with him, opened it up, drank deeply, and then took a deep breath. "Right. My lord is the High Lord of the Spring Court."

She tilted her head, the strands of white glass that made up her hair tinkling softly against each other as they fell over her face. "_I do not know what a Spring Court is._"

"Right. You're older than that. Let me start again. My lord is a High Fae lord, a kind of king of the land I live in. A little more than fifty years ago, he was cursed by an evil queen…"

He told the whole story, start to finish. Feyre's arrival, the hope they had had for her. His voice shook when he recounted Amarantha's murder of Feyre, more than he had expected it would. Tamlin's presentation to Amarantha, the tortures he may be undergoing even now. He even shared the rumors he had been hearing, worried she would know if he left a single thing out. He walked her through the riddles from the Suriel, prophecies he was traveling the Prythian lands to unravel and understand. About Tarquin's ruins, and Viviane's expressions when speaking of the mortal woman of the past. Of riding through the Day Court, avoiding roads and towns, weeks by himself in the saddle.

Of standing at the edge of a desert few survived and asking for an audience.

When he had finished, the Spirit of the Glass stared at him with her wide white eyes. Then, slowly, she began to smile, and clapped her hands together.

"_Oh, you are a lovely sort of monster. I do love your story. If only your people were not demons loosed on earth. You said you had a riddle for me._"

"Right." Lucien fished the paper out of his pocket. It was becoming nearly as soft as cloth from repeated foldings and unfoldings, the ink even slightly faded.

"_In the Day Court, war 'tween two raged_

_And razed a forest into glass_

_I am found in the Spirit's gaze _

_Let me help you to raise the past._"

She sat back, her blank white stare on him. There was a long, long silence. Lucien took the time to drink as much water as he could get away with. Then, she said quietly, "_I know what you need. But I do not want to give it to a monster. Not even a beautiful one._"

"Why not?"

"_The war fought here was a diversion. What I did here…_" She looked around them, gesturing to the wide expanse of glassy dunes, the utter death that surrounded them. "_All this did was buy a few days' grace, time for my people to make an escape. I did not know, when my fight with the High Fae began, that I would never leave it._"

"Are you a part of the same humans from the First Walk? The ruins of the temple?"

"_I don't know that name. We were on the run, trying to find a place we could shield ourselves from view, find safety. The fae were on our heels. We destroyed them as we ran. Finally, only one remained. The others were dead or decided it was not worth it to chase us any longer_." She smiled, a quirk of one lip. It made her seem so young and simultaneously ancient. "_That High Fae and I tore each other apart. It took days. We were both strong. We knew each other well. In the end, we left a scar, and I remained. But I could not go._"

"Do you hate us?"

"_I did. For thousands of years. But hate has a way of fading with time, Lucien Vanserra. I wish I had let the High Fae live long enough for him to also become trapped with me. It might be nice to have someone to talk to._"

Lucien looked down at the ground, thoughtfully, then slowly back up at her. "As I told you, I am trying to save my lord-"

"_Your. Friend._" She said the words in two flat snaps. "_You do not save him because he is a lord, or has dominion over you. You want to save him because he is your friend._"

"Fair enough. When I needed saving, he helped me. It could have ruined him, if he'd made a mistake. You said you don't want to help me, because of what I am. We are just beings. Like you."

"_Your kind drove mine away. You were monsters. You destroyed us. None of my people remain."_

"I know. I… am sorry, for that. Although in my defense, it did happen _literally_ thousands of years before I was born."

"_I know your friend._"

"... how? You're a ghost, and Tamlin has never been here in the Day Court lands."

She laughed again. "_Because my place is in the center of the Glass, and from it I see a thousand times alongside each other. Time does not know distance, child. Time loops and circles back. In the end, you can see everything, in all places. Your friend will be given a choice, and he will fail it. Or he may not, in some he succeeds. In some there is a woman of gold light who rends his heart and he blames her for his own dark choices, hiding from the consequences of experiences he cannot face. In this, though… I think in this one, he is surrounded by dark wings, and a red light. Buried by them. Drowning in them. His head is under their water and there is no air._"

"That's a fact," Lucien muttered.

"_He drowns, monster, in a sea of darkness. The darkness is not all evil, but the red light is. It changes him. He will not return as the man he was, no matter what. I see your success. You save your lord but damn the courts. I see you save them all. I see you fail, and die, and your bones bleach in the sun. I see you fail, naked, with the red light behind and above you. I see a man who once had wings tied to a black throne, forced to sing, as you kneel in supplication. I see you fail, and fail, and fail. In a hundred ways._"

"Helpful," Lucien said with mock cheer. "Wonderful. Just what you want to hear from an immortal death-ghost."

"_I _also_ see you succeed. I see a new room in his great house, a dark room. I hear the sound of wings. I think you must seek out the man who will be tied to the throne. He is in many futures. He is always tied to the throne, before the end. He is always forced to sing."_

"Winged man? Rhysand? Will she cut off his wings?_"_ Even for a wretched, smug bastard like the Night Lord, that was… barbaric.

"_No. A different man. You may save his wings and yourself at the same time."_

Lucien thought of the second Suriel's suggestion, to trust shadows_. Maybe we should ask for their advice more often._

"_If I give you what I have, you may bring back a thing that is meant to be feared. That is why I do not want to. That, and you're a monster._"

"I have to do it."

"_I know that. And I will give you what you ask for. But you must spend the night with me._"

Lucien blinked. She continued smiling. He blinked some more. "I must apologize, Spirit, but… what?"

"_Oh, you don't actually have to do anything. I won't force you. But… it has been a very long time, pretty monster. You are very lovely. Alive, and warm, and soft of skin. And I am very lonely._"

Lucien raised an eyebrow. She tilted her head at him. He looked around, thinking about bones bleached by the sun, buried under glass sand. "Will I… survive… the experience?"

Her laughter rang out all around them. He could feel the wind shift, a bit of warmth in it. The dunes around them shifted. "_Yes. Indeed I think you will enjoy yourself. I told you, I _like_ you. I once loved a man like you._"

"What happened?" He thought he knew, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from asking.

"_I fought a great battle with him, when he chose his own kind over me. He is buried beneath the Glass._"

"If I stay here with you as you ask, will I… will he…"

"_No, my monster. He is dead. I will give you what you ask, but I wish you to stay with me. I have been lonely for a long time._"

"You think I can make you less lonely?"

"_Yes._"

"I…" Lucien stood up from the bench, turning to look at the tent. "Then I suppose I will spend the night with you, Spirit."

She smiled, pleased, and held out her hand. He took it, the dry skin hot to the touch, and allowed the Spirit of the Glass to lead him to the multi-colored tent. She was already naked, and he wasted no time learning whether or not ancient desert spirits felt the same way about their breasts as every other woman he'd met.

He discovered, shortly, that thousands of years of loneliness had indeed sharpened her desires. The night lasted a few hours, or perhaps a hundred years. It was hard to tell.

* * *

When he woke, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, she was gone. The oasis was the same, but now a path was visible, the dunes had shifted. Lucien stretched his arms over his head, feeling wonderfully spent, languid. She was not a spirit who tired easily, that was certain. Thousands of years old or not, there were certain things between men and women that didn't exactly require much in the way of innovation to enjoy.

_I enjoyed that, too_, his sword sang. He winced. He hadn't thought about that part. He _had _to figure out how to take the binding off one day.

When he rolled over, he saw a simple piece of polished white glass lying next to him on the blankets, slightly oblong in shape, like a large polished rock. After a moment, he realized it was one of the spirit's eyes, and shuddered. _I am found in the Spirit's gaze_. He wrapped it carefully in cloth and packed it away inside his pocket.

He dressed himself, with the sword a soft pleased song at his side, bowed to the pool in the oasis, and walked back through the dunes. He saw, and heard, nothing of the spirit.

When he stepped finally back into the scrub, his horse calmly waiting for him and all his packs full of new food and water, he heard her laughter behind him, twining around the hissing of the wind. The hot breeze blew around him. He could feel, briefly, her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes, lifting his chin just a little as the dry wind trailed there like fingertips.

"_Come stay with me any time, Lucien Vanserra. I see many futures where you do."_

He spun around, and saw nothing. But the path that had led him into the desert was gone.

After a second, however, he turned back to look at his horse. "You've still got it, Lucien," He said to himself, grinning widely. "Even when she's a terrifying goddess of death, you still got it."

He mounted up and rode away.


	16. Chapter 16

"It's not _impossible,_" Morrigan spat at Cassian, who glared at her over his drink. "It _can _happen."

"Nuala and Cerridwen seem certain," Azriel pointed out in his usual flat, empty voice. "The only thing they differed on was whether or not they should _tell me _about it. Which is not a disagreement I like."

"Rhys would never be so weak-" Cassian began.

"It's not weak!" Mor shouted, slamming her palms down on the table. The dishes and cups rattled and she and Cassian glared at each other in sullen silence for a long moment. Then, Mor sat back and crossed her arms over her chest, raising one eyebrow, daring him to say a word.

"For what it's worth, I agree with the Morrigan," Amren said, looking with great interest at her own fingernails. On any other being, it might have looked like she was trying to avoid an awkward conversation. On Amren, it was clear that she was, for the moment, simply and genuinely more interested in her fingernails than anything else in the room. "It's not weakness. You've been poisoned by mortal contact to think so."

"See?" Mor smiled, smugly. "_Amren_ agrees with me."

"_Amren _had to be taught how to put on her underthings," Cassian drawled, but the glare in his face did not change. "And thought a turkey was a fierce predator. I don't consider her the expert on appropriate sexual expression in half-breed High Lords."

"Are you suggesting that you _are?_"

"I would say I know more than a little about sexual expression," Cassian grinned widely, then ducked when Morrigan threw her cup at his head.

"Hard to be an expert when you can't get a girl to say yes," Mor declared. She snapped and the cup reappeared, unbroken and full of that crystal clear liquor, in her hand.

"Mor, it's ten in the morning," Cassian pointed out. "You sure it's a good time for drinking?"

"I'm not prepared to talk about what Rhysand does in bed and to whom without being at least two-thirds of the way to drunk," Morrigan replied airily.

Cassian was silent, then nodded. "That's fair. Get me a glass, too?"

"We're _not _talking about what he does in bed," Azriel said quietly, and both of them turned to look at him. "We are talking about the potential risk to our safety, should it go beyond, well… bed."

"Cauldron, Az, you telling me _you _are uncomfortable talking about it?" Cassian snorted. "Let's just say it. He's fucking another High Lord. I can't… that's _got _to break some protocols. Right? An ethics rule or something? Do you think it's written down somewhere, or just like… unwritten? 'Forbidden: fucking other High Lords? Rhys has lost his gods-be-damned mind. Not to mention it's _disgusting_."

"Is it?" Morrigan demanded, standing up, fire in her eyes. "Is it _disgusting_, to you, Cassian?"

Cassian blinked at her, baffled. "Isn't it disgusting to _you? _He's gone to bed with_ Tamlin._ I was genuinely unaware anyone ever did that on purpose."

"I… well, yes, but not because… it's disgusting because it's _Tamlin._ Not because…" Morrigan waved her hand in the air in a gesture so vague it could have meant anything at all before collapsing back into her seat again.

"I am surrounded by bickering children," Azriel muttered to himself.

"Bickering children _and _someone who thinks you are all a pile of prudes," Amren said without looking up. "There is no sexual combination of beings that has not been tried, tested, and found worthy in at least _some _of the worlds out there. Obviously Rhys has tested Tamlin and found him…" Amren smiled a wicked smile. "Worthy. Think they'd let me watch? Do you think they have a fight over who gets to be on top?"

"Mother, Amren, shut up! I wish I could throw a cup at _you,_" Cassian growled.

Amren raised an eyebrow "Try me."

Cassian sighed and put his hands up in retreat.

"We are not in _some worlds out there_, Amren," Cassian said, closing his eyes, a pained expression on his face. "We are in _our _world, and in _our world _it is just not… done."

"Clearly he's _already doing it,_" Morrigan said with a warning in her voice. "Or the twins wouldn't have come to Azriel with worry about it."

"We need to know more, but there is only so much Nuala and Cerridwen can see and report back without giving themselves away. Either to Amarantha or… Rhys himself."

Morrigan and Cassian had identical expressions of shock and dismay on their faces. "You asked them to hide that they are reporting to you on this?"

"No," Azriel said, looking off into nothing thoughtfully. "I didn't, not directly. But I don't think Rhys is… as aware, of things, as he should be. Or would appreciate that they came to us if he were."

"It could be some spell or glamour of Amarantha's," Cassian suggested.

"Right, anything to let you believe he didn't come to it of his own volition," Morrigan snapped, anger flashing in her eyes.

"What does _that _mean?" Cassian blinked, baffled, palms out before him. "Mor, I'm just confused. He and Tamlin have loathed each other for _actual centuries. _Rhys swore never to forgive him for what happened to his mother and sister."

"Tamlin did not actually _do_ that, of course," Morrigan pointed out.

"Does that _matter?_"

"Yes," Morrigan said, in one deadly quick syllable.

"Fine. I don't know what wild hair you're on about Rhys acting like a flit in a bathhouse, but it's got to be something Amarantha did to him. And you _know _that _Tamlin_ isn't… that. Is he?"

"Maybe that mortal woman ruined him for women," Amren said languidly. "Or maybe Amarantha's court is more decadent than anyone understands and he and Rhys have simply been… seduced, into it."

"Absolutely not," Morrigan said at the same time Cassian said, "Bullshit."

They looked at each other, and there was a wordless truce. Both sat back.

Azriel let out an almost silent sigh of relief. "The question becomes whether or not the risk Cerridwen brought to me is something to consider seriously. If Amarantha has managed to break Rhys's protections of his own mind, somehow, and is leading him along this path… is she intending to force him to reveal us?"

"That doesn't make sense," Mor said, shaking her head slowly. "Not only is Rhys smarter than that, Amarantha… isn't. She doesn't even know there's anything to _reveal._"

"Amarantha is a base animal, but she isn't stupid," Cassian said thoughtfully. "It's possible she has suspicions about the… low population levels of our vast territory."

"We're nothing but mountains and ice. Who would willingly live here?"

"Well… us."

"I mean, who would willingly live out _there_?" Morrigan gestured to the world outside Velaris, the hard, unforgiving mountains. "The version of it we've invented and held to be true to the world? And don't think I've never thought I'd be happier in an island in the middle of the sea with you know who where _your prattle _doesn't make up such a large part of my day."

"Ah, you'd miss me and you know it," Cassian replied, giving her a smile that seemed more like bared teeth.

"He would, you know," Amren said, finally looking up from her fingers. She didn't have any judgement in her voice at all. In fact, she was smiling, just a little. "Underneath his cynicism and his ego and his posturing, you all know Rhys. He's always been a fool for the idea of love. Always thought he'd meet some woman who 'sees him for what he really is' and nonsense like that. If what Cerridwen brought to Azriel is correct, and I can't see any reason to doubt her, Rhysand might… falter, for just a moment, if presented with such a stark choice."

"Rhys has not faltered in fifty years," Azriel said quietly.

"Rhys has been given nothing to falter for," Amren pointed out. "It is easier to play a part when no one you love is there to witness it."

"And _who knows _what he has suffered," Cassian growled. "All we have are their vicious, pointless rumors. I'd love to get my hands on-"

"When you need to perform a delicate operation," Amren simply spoke over him. "You do not use a hammer. That would be _you_, Cassian," She said helpfully, as though the Illyrian war-leader were simply too dumb to grasp it. "You are the hammer. The evil would only grow, if it is not excised."

"You think what Rhys might be feeling is… evil?" Morrigan looked horrified, and Cassian frowned, clearly confused by it. "You_ just said_-"

"I don't think anything that Rhys feels is evil. You misunderstand me. I'm talking about what Amarantha may intend to do. What I am saying is, there is nothing Cassian could do that would not put us in an even worse position. We need a scalpel, not a sword."

There was a long silence. Everyone turned, slowly, to look at Azriel.

Azriel frowned. "We are not supposed to leave. Rhys entrusted all of us with Velaris."

"What if Rhys were its greatest threat?" Amren asked, mildly.

"Then I'd kill him," Azriel said without hesitation. "Because he would want me to, if it came to that."

"Does _every_ conversation we have get this dramatic these days?" Cassian asked the ceiling. The ceiling did not respond.

"I am not saying that we need to do anything, not yet. But it may be worth taking some time and deciding what steps we _can _take. If it looks like Rhys himself will risk us, then we may need to... take action... to stop him."

Azriel felt a strange stir of fear within him, a stone that seemed to crawl down from his heart to his knees. He examined the stone, turned it over within himself. He was afraid to face down Rhys, afraid of what that would mean. Interesting. "If the time comes, it will be me. The rest of you are more needed than I, I think, should Velaris fall." There was a strange distance on his already-mostly-empty face. Cassian narrowed his eyes, looking at him for a long time without looking away.

"Cauldron forbid," Morrigan whispered.

They continued to discuss it, and bicker, for another few minutes. Just as Morrigan had threatened to stab Cassian with the tines of her salad fork, a servant cleared his throat discreetly and she turned, fork in hand, still held threateningly over her head, to look at him.

"I have a communication for the eyes of the Night Court," The servant said. "It is meant for the eyes of the realm's High Lord."

Amren smiled. "Let me see it."

The servant gave her a piece of parchment paper, bowed briefly, and left. Amren scanned the words, her mouth twisting slightly. Then she sighed and lowered it. "That man has the most atrocious handwriting I have ever seen. It looks like he wrote it while riding a _horse._"

"What man?"

Amren narrowed her eyes at the bottom, then they flared wide again. She smiled, and in that smile was fifteen thousand years of age and blood and death. "Lucien Vanserra."

There was a short silence, and then Cassian and Morrigan both leaped bodily out of their chairs in an attempt to be the first one to look at the letter with her. Cassian was faster, but Morrigan made up for it by swearing at him really creatively.

Azriel did not move. He could feel the shadows at his feet, around his wrists. Waiting. Watchful.

_Here it goes, _he thought to himself. _This is how it starts_.

"Az, you've got to see this," Cassian said, having grabbed the letter away from Amren, who was watching with vague amusement as he and Morrigan all but battled over it. "You will never fucking believe it."

"That Lucien Vanserra wrote us a letter? He's trapped in the Spring Court manor, last I heard." Azriel shrugged, delicately. _Don't let them know you expected this. _"No doubt he's gone mad with boredom and has likely written everyone in Prythian a letter."

"That's not… _untrue_," Amren said, beginning to smile.

Azriel frowned, holding out a hand. Cassian brought him the letter, barely holding in his excitement. "I had no idea. _How_ did I not know this part?"

"_This_ part?" The suspicion on Cassian's face earlier was back, and stronger than ever.

"Unimportant. How did I not know this?"

"Because Lucien Vanserra is a lot smarter than any of you give him credit for?" Amren suggested. "Because you seem to totally lack the basic understanding of your own kind to grasp that what he is to Tamlin is a thing of great nobility in his own mind? Because literally no one in this room has an _ounce_ of perspective?"

"I intended the question to be rhetorical," Azriel said dryly. He's asking for an audience with Mor."

"He's traveling," Cassian said, eyes shining.

"He's riding a _horse,_" Morrigan said, wrinkling her nose. "Like a mortal. It'll take him ages to get to the Hewn City."

"Even when he does, he'll be dead the second someone recognizes him," Cassian pointed out. "What in the Mother would bring him here?"

"I'd bet Lucien Vanserra has a plan," Amren continued her strange, knowing smile.

Cassian actually managed to frown harder. "Knowing the kind of people Tamlin keeps around himself, it's a _horrible_ plan, Amren."

Amren's smile widened. "The best ones usually are."

Azriel read to the end of the letter. Then he looked up at the others. "It sounds like Lucien Vanserra is coming here to ask for _our help_. He doesn't seem to know who he is writing to. He says give him three months to get here."

"Traveling as a mortal must be interminable," Morrigan rolled her eyes.

"Three months," Azriel said out loud, thoughtfully. "Three months."

"_Please _say we'll meet him," Amren said, with surprising enthusiasm.

Cassian groaned. "Please say we won't."

When Azriel only raised an eyebrow, Amren clapped her hands together with delight.


	17. Chapter 17

Tamlin had learned well enough, by now, how to keep out of her way. To keep his eyes down, and speak in a low voice, and speak to her the way she wanted him to. To suggest, as well as be commanded. He tried not to think about how it meant the court increasingly saw him as another Rhys, just another desecrated High Lord who had sold himself into Amarantha's bed.

Beyond that, they saw he and Rhys as… something sicker than that.

He knew that they did nothing to undo their gossip and assumptions, and that Rhys at least was beyond caring. That they had their heads together, gold and black hair mingling, as Rhys leaned over his chair to whisper things in his ear. They they entered court together, walking just behind Amarantha, Tamlin with his eternal empty disinterest and Rhysand with that smirk plastered on. Amarantha's matched set.

That Amarantha watched them with a smug smile that made it clear whatever they were doing together, however it was seen in the Court's eyes, was sanctioned by her or even happened at her command.

He should have cared. He had cared about gossip, and reputation, and tradition, for hundreds of years. But in hell, he couldn't keep caring. Rhys was the only way to keep himself sane.

Rhysand's unique powers inspired enough fear alongside the derision that most of the mutterings were kept just out of his earshot. Tamlin, a neutered Spring Lord who had spent his time being arrogant and overprotective of his things and an absolute ass, was a novel and new target.

He had not realized what it was like for Rhysand, before. Now that members of the court felt free to spit on him, or touch him, seemingly at their own whim, it was… becoming obvious that Tamlin had never understood what Rhys had gone through at all.

He could mostly grit his teeth and take it, even the times they would run a hand up his back, whisper insults in his ear. One particularly annoying female courtier had grabbed his ass at least three times. Amarantha only laughed.

After all, the humiliation was the point, wasn't it?

He was mostly able to just… take it.

Until, three days before the first year of his eternal captivity was up, Lucien's brothers had decided to take an interest in making him more miserable than he already was.

Tamlin was refilling his own goblet of wine tonight. He found it easiest to flatter Amarantha when he was about as drunk as he could get without risking his own ability to walk. And she was in high spirits and had been for days. She'd dispatched a team to negotiate with the King of Hybern. Her invasion of the mortal lands was in the early stages of planning.

_Amarantha gets everything she wants_, he thought bitterly, as he poured the red wine nearly to the brim. _Everything. I get a dead mortal lover and the loss of my lands and the knowledge that everyone here knows I'd fuck her right there on the floor if she ordered me to, and at least a few of them have probably thought about asking if she could make me fuck them, too._ Then he slowly set the bottle back down, staring at it. He quirked the slightest smile. _I get Rhys, though._

Sometimes. Although the past couple of weeks had seen Rhys distant and constantly disappearing again. Tamlin hadn't seen him in a couple of days.

"That's quite an expression. Do you smile like that on your back in bed with Amarantha's whore? Or, you know, her _other_ one?"

Tamlin jerked his head up, turning slowly to the left to look into the eyes of Lucien's second-eldest brother. Well, the second-eldest _living_ one. He was leaning against the wall next to the wine table, smiling, almost leering at him. Tamlin took a step back, squaring his shoulders, and turned to the right-

And there was Eris, the eldest, with an expression that might be best described as 'calculated disgust'. Keeping his eyes down, Tamlin turned around, and found the last two brothers standing with their arms crossed, identical expressions of disgust on _their _faces.

"Cauldron's sake-" He muttered, moving to get around them. Eris leaned out with a casual grace and simply knocked the wineglass out of his hand. It shattered on the floor, a spray of wine in every direction. The stains blended seamlessly into and then disappeared in the flat black silken pants Amarantha had never stopped forcing him to wear.

"You'll have to get a new glass, I suppose," Eris said with a false concern. "Might have to go beg Amarantha like a puppy not to get you in _trouble _for it."

Tamlin stood still, staring over Eris's shoulder as though he simply weren't there. He said nothing, but he worried they could see his jaw working, see how hard it was for him to not move. He felt the edge of the claws in his mind, the way Amarantha's magic closed over his hands like a net and forced them down.

"Oh no," One of the others said, the one to his side, stepping up closer until he bumped Tamlin. "Did she order you to keep your mouth shut for once?"

Tamlin tried not to rise to the bait. He really did. His success lasted all of a few seconds before he snarled, "I save my words for people who aren't just pawns with delusions of grandeur. Go crawl on your belly in the mud like the brainless lizards you are."

"Did you imagine, when you took away our right to slaughter our slut brother for dallying with _that slime_, that this would be where you'd end up?"

"I can honestly say no," Tamlin replied. "I need to get back to-"

"Your owner?" Eris asked, quietly, but with a sick smile. "Did you get too far off your leash?"

"Are you needed to suck the Night Lord's cock _right away_, or do you think that'll wait a bit?" The two brothers laughed. The third was staring at him with a fascination that Tamlin found incredibly unsettling.

"Stop it," He growled. "You have no idea what you-"

"Eris _heard you. _Sucking him off like a common whore in a broom closet. _Begging for it. _Who'd have known that you were such a-"

"I. Said. Stop." He tried to push his way past, his face burning with the shame of it, but the two standing together simply grabbed him by each arm. 'You all know damn well that I have to do as I am ordered."

"Mmmn," Eris said, thoughtfully, stepping around in front of him, tapping his chin with one finger. "Is that true? Whose orders? The Night Court Lord's? Ours?"

Tamlin's stomach dropped, but he made his expression as fierce as he could, when everyone here knew there was nothing he could really do. "As. _She._ Orders."

"You should have just gone to her when she first asked," Eris said languidly. "All this mess you've gotten Rhysand into." He held out a hand and one of the other brothers set a glass of wine into it.

"I wouldn't drink that," Tamlin snapped. "It's as like to be poison as actual wine."

"Oh, I know that," Eris murmured. "But not this time." He took a long drink, watching Tamlin closely. The other brothers still had their hands around his arms. Tamlin tried, with all his might, _not _to look in Amarantha's direction to see if she had noticed or might stop it. Wondered where in hell Rhys was.

_I'll die before she'll rescue me._

"You know what's interesting," Eris said softly. He began to walk and Tamlin was shoved, roughly, from behind by the fourth brother as the other two dragged him along by the arms. Tamlin could feel the beast straining against Amarantha's magic, straining and failing. Mostly, no one else in the room noticed. Those who did, laughed. After a year, Tamlin was largely a figure of derision and dismissed otherwise. "You were… so high and mighty when you took Lucien from us."

"The things you called us," The brother to his left said.

"Pretty nasty names," The brother to the right continued.

The brother behind him said nothing, only slowly pressed the edge of a dagger into his lower back.

"I think you vastly underestimate how much I want to die," Tamlin hissed as he was forced along.

"We have waited for so long to have this conversation." Eris gestured down a hall and away he went. Amarantha, if she noticed, never said a thing. Rhysand wasn't anywhere to be found. He'd spent another week gone more often than he wasn't, quiet, watchful, secretive. Things had gotten… better. Until they weren't better any longer, and Rhysand disappeared again.

_Almost a year. Only one._

"Oh, lovely."

They were quiet, then, dragging him down stairs and further into Under the Mountain until they found the Night-Blooming Garden. A place that was so eerie and uncomfortable that nearly everyone but Rhysand avoided it entirely.

"Oh." Tamlin said, as they brought him through the doorway and the eerie rainbow of off-kilter glow and light assaulted him. Flowers with large petals the size of his fireplace back home were a brilliant red. Mushrooms and other fungi were green and blue. There was a yellow-tinted vine that curled up the walls, providing the light that made it possible to even truly see your hand in front of your face. "_Lovely._"

Tamlin was shoved forward, catching his foot on one of the vines that snaked along the floor and slamming hard into the ground. He was up on his feet in an instant and spun around, splaying out his feet, moving into a fighter's crouch.

"You've always been quite the idiot when it comes to assessing the odds," Eris said quietly. "And you embarrassed my father, myself, and my brothers quite badly. You had ways to save Lucien that would not have involved embarrassing us, Tamlin."

"Not that I knew about," Tamlin hissed. They moved around, fanning out around him. Circling him. Four on one wasn't the best odds, especially for a neutered High Lord with nothing more than his fists to fall back on.

"You could have let us kill him."

"Unacceptable."

"You could have asked to barter, and see what we might trade for him."

"Eris, you'd have asked for half the moon and a god's fingernail just to laugh when I couldn't meet your demands. Besides, _you_ were the one who-"

"True." Eris stood in front of him, arms crossed. "You have a reputation for… failing to meet demands."

Tamlin ground his teeth together. The temper inside of him burned, a fire with no way out, eating up all his oxygen and then pressing against his skin-

He hissed in pain as the net of Amarantha's magic closed even more tightly, pulling his hands in close against his chest, trying to keep all of them at equal distance as they slowly closed him in.

"Aaahhh, there you go. What a muzzle on you, hm?" Eris smiled, winningly. "Tamlin, I am not here to _hurt_ you." Tamlin stared around, slowly lowering his hands. The brothers moved in closer, closer.

"_I'm_ not," Eris said, turning and heading back to the door. "Them, on the other hand…" He closed the door to the Night-Blooming Garden behind him. Tamlin heard the lock click shut with a sound that seemed as loud as a church bell in the mortal lands.

The brother standing behind him was the first to attack. Tamlin was ready for it, he'd expected that, and met the attempt with a punch of his own. He cracked him across the cheekbone and the brother stumbled back, cursing. Another was already leaping forward to grab him by the waist. Tamlin spun away, all his long instincts, all the fighting he'd done coming back to him. You don't live as a war-leader for multiple centuries without certain things becoming instinct.

He held his own. He got good hits in and not one of them wouldn't look like they'd lost a barfight in the morning. His fist connected, again and again, and he felt alive, without Rhysand, for the first time since he'd been locked down here in the dark.

"You can't do any real shit to us," One of the brothers smirked at him. It was like Rhys's smirk but totally unlike it at the same time. "Neither can your _me'cha begge_. Maybe we'll get him down here, too."

Another punch. Kick to the stomach. Behind it all, his anger ate him alive.

Eventually the snarl on his face became a smile. He took a punch to the face and stumbled back, grinning with blood smeared on his teeth as he turned to give as good as he got. He was panting, though, wearing down much faster than he should have.

_You never eat, you get no chance to train, you sleep a few half-caught hours during the day thanks to the nightmares that never stop waking you up. You're wearing out. There's no one to back you up here._

He grabbed one by the shoulders and shoved him up against the wall, giving him a punch to the gut that had the man choking and gasping, stumbling forward, falling down, as he turned, almost gracefully, to slam his fist into the face of the second. The man went down sputtering, spitting blood and teeth he'd have to heal back in later. Tamlin laughed, a growling, humorless sound, and leaned over to deliver another blow.

He'd forgotten about the third brother.

The third simply swept his feet out from under him.

Tamlin hit the ground on his back, cracking his head on the cobblestones that made up the paths that led through the garden. There was a punch to his face to complement the black spots popping up in his eyes. There were more. Dizzy, he couldn't seem to get back up. The hits kept coming. At some point he barely felt them. The other two got up at some point, and joined in.

Lucien's brothers.

Tamlin felt rage. He had never been so- _angry. _And helpless. Trapped, down here in the dark. They'd decided he was fair game, as long as they didn't kill him. And he was pretty sure they were right.

_He's not coming to help you._

They'd probably asked her permission, first. A year, that's how long it'd taken someone to try. A year, to settle old scores. And Rhys was nowhere to be seen.

_He is not coming to help you because he knows you can't protect him. _

The rage built. His temper built. He scrambled and fought but they kept punching, and kicking, yelling all the curses and the hate they'd built up since he'd taken Lucien in. He couldn't get up. He couldn't get up. Tamlin's eyes were squinting against what he was sure would be black eyes if he couldn't heal himself fast enough. He was spitting blood too by now, although less than them.

_You're supposed to be a protector, and you can't protect him. That's all you've ever had to offer anyone, your ability to protect. You couldn't protect Feyre. You can't keep anyone safe. You can't protect anyone. _

They managed to get him on the ground again, two brothers holding his arms twisted up behind his back while he flailed and struggled, the other slamming his head into the ground, again and again. Black explosions of light. Darkness flashing. Pain. Fury. The agony of fighting her magic, the lance of pain between his shoulder blades.

_If she tells you to kill him, you'll have to. You can't break her spells. You'll never get out of here because you cannot protect him. He lies to you because you cannot protect him. He knows. He knows. He knows._

"Maybe we'll get your _me'cha begge _next, you piece of shit," One of them laughed. "Think he'll get his wings out for us? Teach him how to keep _his _mouth shut, too."

The third one, the one that had stared at him with that awful intensity, grinned. "Maybe we'll see if he sucks cock as well as_ you_ do."

_Protect him._

His claws pushed against Amarantha's net. Pushed, and stretched Amarantha's net as far as it could go, pushed past the blasts of pain, and then… the web of magic that held back his beast broke. He _felt _the snap of it, heard the tearing sound inside his head, and laughed behind his bloody smile as the claws came flashing out. The fur. The fangs.

The brothers stumbled back, eyes wide.

"You're not supposed to be able to do that," One of them slurred, wiping at his mouth with a hand.

"She gave us permission," the second one wheedled. "She told us you can't shift anymore."

The third brother just stared.

The beast, taller at his shoulders than they even when he stood on all four paws, only snarled. Bloody froth dripped from its muzzle. He stretched his claws for the first time in… a year. He thought about Amarantha and felt, immediately, his entire body simply… refuse to consider what he wanted to do to her any further. Not all the magic, then. He could not hurt her. But he could… hurt… _them_.

He pulled his lips back from those fangs and let them see the dim glowing light gleam off, like lanterns in the dark. He laughed, and it was a deep and animal sound, bouncing off the walls. A man's voice buried in a lion's roar, and worse.

"_She was wrong._"

From somewhere, he could hear the awful shriek of Amarantha's rage, as she felt him burst free.

He didn't have long. But he had long enough to make sure not one of them in this room could ever, _ever_ hurt Rhys.

On the other side of that locked door, Eris smiled to himself and walked firmly away, his shoes clicking on the floor.

* * *

Somewhere against the wall inside the Night-Blooming Garden, the shadow-servants melted into invisibility in the dark. As the beast leapt, Cerridwen clapped a hand over Nuala's mouth. Nuala pressed her hand over Cerridwen's mouth at the same moment.

In breathless silence, they tried not to scream, or laugh.

They did both.


	18. Chapter 18

He tore them apart, each move of a claw the feeling of freedom he'd been denied. He ripped out their throats with his fangs, burying his muzzle in the blood that sprayed out. Bone crunched between his teeth. They screamed at first, but not for long.

He did not stop until so little was left that they could never be pieced back together. Each bite, slash, tear was one less chance they would ever get to hurt him- or Rhys.

The red-petaled flowers, those heavy obscenely large sprays of glowing color, let loose a sudden rain of yellow pollen in the air. It settled into the blood and gore and viscera, landed with the softest weight along Tamlin's fur. A sweet smell, amber and vanilla and sandalwood with some kind of peppery bite, was thick enough to cut with a knife.

He felt the pain rippling across him as Amarantha attempted to contain him, but the beast did not care.

When he shook his shaggy shoulders the pollen did not shake off, but seemed only to find its way deeper into the layers of fur.

Sometimes he heard an echo of laughter and thought maybe it was his own. Rhys's voice might be shouting from some long distance. Maybe not. It was the blood that mattered more, what the blood represented. Safety. Protection.

_Protect him._

When little more than red smears were left on the floor and the flowers of the Night-Blooming Garden lit shimmering reflections in gore that only vaguely suggested a floral shape, he let the beast fall away.

Amarantha's command slammed into his body with a shock, and he stumbled forward with a painful scream, onto his hands and knees in the slick red. The web of magic closed tightly around him once again. The beast was gone.

The lock to the door clicked.

When it swing open, Amarantha stood in the doorway, Eris at her side. Rhysand was just behind them..

Tamlin slowly stood. The muscled hunter's body, gone leaner and lanky after a year down here, was absolutely coated in blood. It soaked his arms and climbed up his pant legs like some awful vine, splashed across the flat planes of his torso, was smeared around his mouth. He stood, panting, staring at the three with them with feral, furious, empty gold-green eyes. Even the ends of his blond hair had been soaked red.

Eris, at the back, looked slowly down at the puddles that remained of his brothers, then back up, with no discernible change in his calculating expression.

"What did you do to him?" He asked, his voice perfectly calm.

"Didn't have to do much," She replied, licking her lips, eyes and smile alight with lust. "Well, Eris?"

"It's done. I will ensure the Autumn Court fights for you." Eris turned and walked away, never looking back. He didn't even look at Rhys.

Time seemed to have slowed. All Tamlin could feel was the blood drying on his skin, stippled with yellow pollen. All he could smell was that heavy amber scent in the air.

Rhysand only stared, looking slowly down at the floor, then slowly up to the ceiling, where the yellow haze remained, before he focused back on Tamlin. There was horror and disgust there, no careful mask. Just horror. A kind of baffled fury. Disgust. _Disgusted by me. _He wondered if Rhys was remembering his mother and sister, heads in a box.

_Worthless._

Amarantha did not look at Rhysand. Tamlin, suddenly exhausted, saw _nothing_ in Rhys's eyes. None of the warm affection that Tamlin had thought was building between them. No hint of an emotion beyond that faint sense of rage and disgust. Rhys opened his mouth, about to say something. Then he spat to the side, as though the sight of Tamlin was more disgusting than he could express, and he was gone.

_That's why he goes quiet and leaves. You can't protect anyone. You're a monster, and a weak one. Die down here in the dark._

He turned to look at Amarantha, his head moving impossibly slow. Tamlin, who had slaughtered three High Lords' sons. She smiled back, stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her. "Kneel."

Tamlin dropped to his knees immediately, before he'd even realized she hadn't put the weight of magic behind the command. He stared up at her as she walked slowly over to him. He felt like he was floating in some terrible ocean.

Her feet were bare again under her long red dress.

"You have committed grave crimes in my Court." Her voice was thick with lust as she ran a finger down the front of her dress and it simply fell away. Her skin in the darkness of the Night-Blooming Garden, its eerie glow, was pale. Her curves even more exaggerated. Tamlin remembered Feyre's body, the sight of her lit by moonlight, and nearly choked on his grief. Amarantha's body was an obscenity. Feyre's had simply been beautiful.

Or maybe it hadn't been the bodies that were different, just the poison inside.

"You shifted, against my orders," Amarantha whispered. She was standing right in front of him, those pale bare feet in a wet puddle of blood and viscera. She wiggled her toes, splaying them out to dig them in deeper, pushing pollen around. "Assumed a form I denied to you. Murdered three High Fae. Why?"

She put a hand to the side of his face, and he closed his eyes. _So tired. _"They threatened to hurt Rhys," he answered honestly, although some dim part of his mind begged him not to. "Had to stop them. No one can hurt Rhys."

"You did this for him?" Amarantha asked. He wondered why she even cared. It was too hard to think too much about it, though. "Seems… overkill. No pun intended." Her hand through his hair and he tilted his head back into the feeling. He was so, so tired. "Do you think he'll appreciate it?"

"No. I can't protect him." He didn't have the energy to lie. He was kneeling in blood. He felt emptier than he ever had. "He knows I can't."

"That's true," She whispered. "You are so weak." Still smiling, she stepped just a touch further forward. Her hand in his hair became suddenly a painfully tight grip and he hissed, softly. Somehow, though, he did not mind it. He felt like a character in one of his own nightmares. "Do you love him?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think he loves you?"

"No. I don't think I can be loved."

"That's true. You're stained with me. You'll always smell of me, be buried in me. You'll never be anything but Amarantha's whore, for the rest of your existence. You're not worth anyone's love."

"No. I'm not."

"You had mine, once. But you _spurned_ it."

"That wasn't love."

A cruel twist of her lips, not quite a snarl. "But you wanted that _human woman's _love. And you want Rhysand's."

"Yes," He whispered. "Protect him."

"As though you've ever been able to protect anyone. Every time he looks at you, he sees that mortal woman die. He sees a whore writhing in my sheets with his wrists chained to the wall. What would you _do_, Tamlin, Lord of Spring, to save him?"

Tamlin let her force his head back, staring up at her smile. He had some sense that he should be fighting this. Or that something was wrong, terribly wrong. But his mind skipped away. "Anything," he whispered.

"Really?" She drew the word out, slowly. "_Anything?"_

"Yes."

She laughed, a low, throaty sound. "Would you kill for me, my love, lead armies, crush my enemies under your feet, if it meant that Rhysand would live? If I held a blade to his throat?"

Something was circling him, some rough beast far more dangerous than his own. He felt like a mortal being slowly penned in by an enchantment. His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "Yes. I would kill for you."

"Would you slaughter members of your own Court on my command if it would save Rhysand's life?"

He should fight this. Argue. But the exhaustion pressed in and the smell of the flowers and _her _smell suffocated him. That look of horror and disgust in his actions on Rhys's face. Even the Lord of Night, famous for his cruelty, knew a monster when he saw one.

"Yes."

"Would you kill yourself to save him?"

"Yes."

"Good boy. Give me a kiss, lover," Amarantha whispered. When he moved as if to stand, she shook her head. "Not up here. Right there in front of you. Stay on your knees."

Tamlin blinked, slowly. He tried to shake his head, but the familiar pain between his shoulder blades began and he could not seem to think his way through the fog. The pollen was in everything, that amber scent mixed with blood. He grimaced, then slowly nodded. Tamlin leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her flat stomach, feeling an otherwordly heat under her skin.

"Lower."

He trailed kisses down, to where the bones of her hip jutted out, the flat spot just inside the curve of that hip, along her pelvis, and then…

Amarantha jerked in a breath, tightening her grip on his red-soaked hair even further, eyes half closing as Tamlin pressed his mouth to place where her legs met, where already he could feel her growing wet. Or maybe that was the blood on his face.

"You're right," Amarantha whispered, gently moving her hips, pushing herself against him. He opened his mouth, licking along the core of her, hearing the throaty purr in response. "You _are_ a monster. You are worthless. You are good for nothing but my bed. You'll _know_ he hates you if he's gone when you return. Don't stop. Use your hands. You won't stop until I finish."

He slid his bloody hand up her leg, listening to her soft inhalation, mouth and tongue working in just the way she wanted, as she whispered to him a constant, moaning litany of every wrong he had ever committed, the ways in which Rhys must hate him now. He lost himself in it, in the hate and self-pity mixed with her scent, her taste, the pollen that lit his skin, the way her hips moved constantly to meet his tongue, his mouth. He slid one finger into her, then two.

Her whispered moans came faster and faster, little panting breaths. _Feyre used to breathe like that when I did this_. He could barely breathe but the command pressed him forward, made him continue even light-headed. He was drunk on the amber-sandalwood smell of this room.

She grabbed onto his hair with both hands, her knees buckling slightly, all but folding herself over him. She came with guttural groans, pressing herself so hard against him, so deeply onto his fingers, that all air was gone, his world was the black spots dancing in the corners of his eyes, the pulsing heat, the core of her, her scent, her taste.

When she was done, she shoved him backwards as hard as she could. Tamlin caught himself, lying there in the muck and viscera, staring down. The puddle was thick enough he could see himself in it. His pupils were wide, the black nearly overpowering the iris.

"Tamlin."

He looked back up and she was dressed and clean again, as if nothing had happened. All but purring with pleasure. "You're filthy. Get up."

He stood, stumbling a little. Standing in their blood, Lucien's brothers, seeing the look on Rhysand's face… and the scent of the flowers, thick and overpowering in the room. That heavy, sweet smell, its pollen settling into his skin. He felt like he was coated in a slime that would never come off.

"Go take a bath." She raised an eyebrow. "You're_ filthy. _Body and soul. Even if I let you walk free, no one else would ever want you."

Tamlin stared at her, eyes wide, only half-comprehending. "No one else would want me," He repeated. He looked younger, like a wounded child. "What did I say-"

"I said go."

Tamlin felt his feet moving without him. He waited until he was outside the room and snapped on a blanket to wrap himself in.

The Attor was waiting. "_Filthy." _The words were hissed. "_Whore._"

Tamlin had never agreed with it more.

The Attor was silent the rest of the way, up the winding hallways and stairwells, until they reached Rhys's room. He stepped inside to find a hot, steaming bath, dinner waiting on the table, and Rhysand himself nowhere to be seen.

There were foggy words in his mind, a thought that didn't seem quite like it was his own. _You'll know he hates you if he's gone when you return._ Tamlin felt himself make a small noise in the back of his throat. Something like fear gripped him, but a slow, uneasy, drunk fear.

Tamlin dropped the blood-flecked blanket, lowered himself into the water, and watched the red blood mix with it, spreading. Each drop a stain. A stain on him.

He scrubbed until the scars were red and angry, until his hair was clean, until he'd washed off every trace of pollen or gore. Refreshed the water, made it blazing hot. Scrubbed. Again and again and again. Until he'd hurt himself. Rhys never came back to the room.

_Filthy. Whore._

They'd threatened to hurt Rhys, and he'd lost control. Now Rhys was gone again. He'd seen the other man's eyes. The horror. The disgust. The way he had left and not looked back. The Night Court Lord, Amarantha's whore, a High Lord of legendary shamelessness and cruelty, had balked when he'd seen what Tamlin had done.

_I have been the ruin of your life. _He thought of Rhysand's words and thought maybe it was the other way around.

_You cannot protect him._

Even though he'd bathed for hours, he could still smell the pollen on his skin.

_Worthless._


	19. Chapter 19

The twins waited for her to leave. They could not safely move until then, couldn't take the risk of her feeling the shift in the shadows that would allow them to go back home. They stood, backs against the wall, waiting it out, hands still pressed over each other's mouths. They had been too close to the beast, in his anger, and there were blood spatters across their bodies and faces.

Neither of them noticed. Especially not once the killing was over, Amarantha arrived, and they watched the High Lord of Spring devolve into some other kind of creature entirely, after Amarantha and Eris had come by. Horrified, they could not look away.

Eventually, Tamlin stumbled out. They watched him go, impassive, faces void of expression. Only a few seconds later, Amarantha walked out too, trailing bloody footprints behind her. Nuala retched as Amarantha deliberately stepped on someone's eyeball, crushing it, with impossible slowness. Somehow, mercifully, Amarantha was deep enough in her satisfaction that she did not hear it.

Once she was gone - really gone- they looked at each other and simply nodded, slowly. There was a brilliant darkness, the sense of a great and powerful wind, and then they stumbled forward directly into a dinner table.

Cassian sat back, simply staring at them. "What in the Mother's name happened to _you_?"

"Oh no," Mor whispered, eyebrows somewhere near her hairline from surprise. "Do the twins kill things now? I was pretty sure they didn't..." She stood up quickly. "Are you all right?"

"It's not a problem, it's not our blood," They said in unison. "Where is Azriel?"

He simply stepped out of a shadow on the other side of a fireplace, looking at them both with his vaguely interested, bored expression. "Whose blood is it, then, ladies?"

"Trennan," said Nuala.

"Merron," Cerridwen counted on her second finger.

Together, they finished, "And Dynlew."

"I have no idea what any of those names mean," Amren said brightly from the corner of the room, where she was patiently feeding tiny crickets to a lizard inside a crystal clear cage. "But I'd like to have a _chat_ with whoever came up with them."

"Those are Eris Vanserra's brothers," Cassian said, eyebrows knitted. Amren raised one eyebrow. "Remember Lucien?" The other eyebrow. "The one who wrote us the letter?" Blank stare. "The one with the _really bad plan_?"

"Oh, him! Why didn't you just say so?"

Cassian ground his teeth together. "I'm going to ask the obvious question, ladies. Why _are_ you covered in the blood of every surviving acknowledged Vanserra heir except Eris?"

"Tamlin killed them," The twins replied.

Azriel and Cassian both just stared. "He did _what?_"

They related the story as best they could, stumbling over each other. Half in unison, half in disagreement. When Cerridwen started to detail out what Amarantha had had Tamlin do to her afterward, Nuala had covered her mouth and quickly said something more… polite and euphemistic, instead. The motion did not go unnoticed by Azriel, although he said nothing.

"Okay." Cassian looked back at Azriel when they had finished their story. "So we know how it happened. Set on them and pushed until he snapped. Then she drugged him, somehow, with those flowers, and… ugh, the other stuff." He made a face. "But… why order them _killed_?"

"Eris," Mor guessed, an old pain twisting in her expression. "Nuala and Cerridwen saw him, and he walked out and locked that door, then didn't give a damn when Amarantha showed him. With his brothers dead and the only other child of his family a disinherited vassal of the Spring Court, he's the only heir. All that fighting, watching his food for poison… gone. Done. He's the heir, and that's that. You heard Cerridwen; he swore the Autumn Court would fight by Amarantha's side."

"His father may feel differently," Azriel pointed out.

"His father doesn't give a shit about any of his sons and you know it," Mor snapped. "He's probably just happy he has to order less food from the servants to feed them now." She paused, thinking. "Although... he will demand recompense."

"Blood for blood," Cassian nodded.

"Think he'll ask to kill Tamlin?"

"Maybe. Amarantha would never let him do it, though."

"She might," Azriel said quietly. Something in him had gone very still, and very cold. "It would be an excellent test about our good ladies' theory about what she's trying to do to them. See if Rhysand protests. What he tries to give up. And I would love to have some of those flowers for our own purposes."

Cassian raised an eyebrow. "Didn't know your tastes ran that way," He said, wryly.

Azriel fixed him with that same cold stare. "For interrogation," He finally answered, each word a harsh clipped beat.

"I'm still not convinced Rhys isn't just… playing the game," Cassian said after a moment of thought. "Even if Tamlin's lost his mind, Rhys wouldn't, right? There's no real reason to believe he feels anything for another High Lord but lust. Lust has never been an issue with High Lords, they're all ego monsters who assume everyone wants them. No one brings down their whole world for the sake of lust."

"Why do you assume it can't be any more than that? It doesn't have to just be _lust_-" Mor spit the words out, glaring at him.

"Mor, I have no_ idea_ why you feel attacked by this! Just let it go!"

Azriel watched them bicker for a while longer, inscrutable. Finally, he held up one hand, and they fell quiet, turning to look at him. "I'm going to leave Valeris."

"Az, we all want to go after Rhys, but you know you can't," Cassian said, pained. "If you leave, you risk-"

"I know what the risk is," Azriel replied, ice in his voice. "But it's only that; a risk. For fifty years we've let him suffer because of _a risk._ Because of something he said while he was panicked, and frightened, in those moments after his power was taken from him. I will prepare, and plan. You know I won't go in without knowing what I will find. But-"

"Az, you _absolutely cannot do this!_" Mor pushed herself up, both hands still on the table. "Valeris will fall!"

Azriel did not look directly at her. "We don't know that. We have always underestimated its strength. And I am not going there immediately. I'm… going to test my theory."

"What theory?" Cassian frowned, looking from him to Mor to Amren and back again. Amren was watching interestedly, fascinated. Mor looked about ready to start burning down houses in rage.

Azriel turned to look at Cas directly. "That the risk is _not_ a guarantee. Eris has had his brothers murdered. That leaves just one brother alive; one that all of us here know isn't anywhere near where he is supposed to be. He won't know what just happened. And he's likely to be discovered as not being where he is supposed to be when one of Amarantha's representatives arrives to bring him the sad news of his brothers' untimely triple-passing at the hands of his own lord."

"Lucien," Cassian said softly.

Mor rolled her eyes. "Yes, Lucien. Thanks for stating the obvious, Cas." He threw a bread roll at her and she ducked effortlessly.

"I will ensure Lucien gets back without alerting Amarantha that he was ever gone. My contacts told me today that he has just made the border. He's in Night Court lands now. If the shields weaken too much I will return immediately."

"So… what if they don't?"

Azriel smiled, brightly. It was an unsettling expression, as though he had seen other people smile but had no idea how to make those muscles work himself, and no one in that room could stand to look right at it. "Then we'll know that we have options. I'll return shortly, either way. I'm not going to take any direct action yet. But I need to know if there's a chance."

Amren frowned. "Does this mean I don't get to hear Lucien's terrible plan in person?"

"I am afraid that it seems not," Azriel answered gravely. "At least not right away."

"Boo," Amren muttered to her lizard, and fed it another cricket.

Azriel turned to Nuala and Cerridwen, still waiting and watching them. "Don't tell Rhys," He said quietly. "I don't want him to worry about us, or believe that we are coming when we may not be able to. Keep this from him."

They looked at each other, then back at him. Nodded slowly as one.

"You are dismissed." When they were gone, he turned to look at the others. "Thanks to them, now we know that she is _very interested _in what Tamlin would do to save Rhys, if she moved to kill him. I imagine our assumptions have been correct, and her next move will be to see what _Rhys_ will do for_ him_."

* * *

Amarantha went back to court, a purring, pleased cat, to the relief of most of the courtiers, when she had finished in the Garden of Night-Blooming flowers. She ordered her servants to clean up the mess and walked back taking her time.

She nodded to the court and took a seat on her throne.

"You were gone for a while," Rhys said, standing at her right. His words, and expression, were guarded.

She turned to smile up at him, a bright and wholesome expression. "Indeed I was," She replied cheerily. "I had such a good time, too." She didn't say anything else, waiting to see if he had been successfully baited. Tapped her fingers on one side of her face.

_One. Two. Three… F-_

"Where is Tamlin?" Rhysand's voice was casual, uncaring. But she knew better. "Is he in your room?"

"Oh, he's definitely _not_ in my room. Don't you worry about that," She laughed, holding out her hand. Someone put a glass of wine into it and she took a long sip. Ah, she had always loved spiced wine. One of the specialties of the Autumn Court. She'd had Beron give her his grandmother's prized recipe.

He might be angry he'd done so now that she had arranged the slaughter of three of his remaining sons. Ah, well. He'd be dead soon enough, and Eris promised to be a _much_ more interesting servant.

Rhysand was clearly fighting some internal battle. A battle he apparently lost. "All I can get from the court is that someone saw him talking to Lucien's brothers during the meeting you sent me to. I didn't know _you_ ever let his location out of your sight, these days." Rhysand was brooding, the beautiful thing.

She grinned over the brim of her cup, looking down on the court below. They mingled, they spoke in whispers. There were romantic entanglements, or unhappy couples who argued in whispered insults. In short, everything was largely normal, like the courts she had attended in her own youth, before the war. This was a normal, functioning court. They were finally, after fifty years, beginning to understand that High Queen Amarantha wasn't going anywhere.

She had built something to last, she was sure of it. All she needed to do was destroy the last remaining hints of rebellion.

"Why does it matter to you, Rhys darling?" Rhysand let out a snort of breath through his nose, and she knew she'd hit her mark. He _hated_ when she called him that. "Can't stop thinking about him? If you'd like me to cut his… _reflection time short_, I can have the Attor bring him at once-" She went to hold up one finger.

Rhysand jerked forward, just slightly, then settled. He hid it well, but she had seen it. Amarantha was many things, but one of them had been a celebrated general, the highest general in the Hybern King's army. And you did not rise to such a high rank without the ability to smell weakness. "No. I don't care. Let him be."

She raised an eyebrow at him, slowly. "Are you quite sure? I wouldn't mind pulling him out here. Maybe we should see how well the High Lord of Spring can _dance._ Does he _dance_, for you, Rhysand?"

There was a warning growl in Rhysand's voice when he replied. "I _said_ never mind, Amarantha. Let him be."

"Are you saying you _don't care _where he is tonight, Rhysand?" She let her voice drag out the syllables of his name. Watched the internal battle in his eyes, totally hidden by a blank, indifferent expression.

_One… two-_

"No," He snapped. "I don't care." With that, he stalked off towards the other end of the room.

"Oh, Rhys darling," She called out. He turned. At least a few other heads did as well. "You won't be leaving this room tonight. At least, not until I do."

He paused, looking sideways back at her, before slightly inclining his head and angrily grabbing himself a cup of wine. A female High Fae sidled up next to him, saying something clearly flirtatious. When he ignored her, she poured her wine down the front of his shirt. A snap and it was clean, but his anger remained. Amarantha grinned, settling into her chair. She loved seeing Rhysand all furious with nowhere to go.

Tonight had been _fun._

* * *

She found Tamlin sitting outside her door when she returned from court, in the early morning hours. She'd sent Rhysand to his room, idly wondering what sort of bloody mess he'd find there. Instead, _she _was the one to find Tamlin, sitting with his back to her door, staring with empty eyes at the wall across from him.

She could smell it, if she concentrated, even though he had cleaned himself as best he could. She could still see streaks of red on his skin from where he'd scrubbed too hard. That hint of amber and peppercorn, sandalwood and vanilla, floated in the air. She could see the despair, the self-hatred that battled on his face, that had him shifting around the powerful muscles in that hunter's body. The way his face still seemed a little lost in fog. Everything had worked exactly as she had hoped. _Those flowers always seem to bloom at the most opportune times, don't they? _Tamlin's expressions were so clear, so honest, she thought. Tamlin had never, after all, been good at hiding them. And Rhysand wasn't here to coach him now. Probably in his own room, wondering where his High Lord had gotten off to.

Well. _Her _High Lord tonight. This morning. Whatever time it was. The self-declared High Queen of Prythian looked down at the once High Lord of Spring, a smile playing on her face.

"He's still gone." Tamlin's voice was hoarse, caught somewhere in his throat. Like a drunk half-passed out at a bar.

"Is he?" She smiled. "I'm not surprised, after _what you did_. He must be_ so_ disgusted by you. You can't protect anyone, can you?"

Tamlin looked slowly up at her. "I want you to hurt me."

_By the Cauldron how I love those flowers. _She blinked, hardly able to contain the delight in her face. "Why?"

"Because you want to hurt me. Because I deserve it."

She smiled, that bright and joyful smile that suggested even Amarantha had once been someone who could be loved. She leaned over and ran her fingers through his hair and shivered when he closed his eyes in disgust, but did not pull away.

When she held out a hand, she couldn't help a little spike of pleasure when he took it with the same hand he'd taken her with earlier. _Does he even remember he did it? The pollen obliterated short-term memory sometimes. Would he even remember this, by the time he came back to himself?_

"That's my love. Be a good boy and go on in." He headed in ahead of her and she watched him walk to the bed, shedding his clothes almost mechanically along the way. She caught her breath, lips parting just slightly. No sight on Prythian better than Tamlin not even waiting to be commanded.

She had a few more hours before the pollen wore off. Really, she only needed it to make sure he'd answered her questions honestly. But the after-effects were always so much fun. She'd have to try and finagle Rhys in during one of the blooms, one day. But he always seemed to know when they were about to occur and be… anywhere else.

Smart, that one. And hard to break. But she had nothing but time.

"Tamlin." He stopped, most of the way to the bed, and turned to look at her. His pupils were still hugely black in his eyes, still influenced by the pollen he'd breathed. "Not the bed tonight, my darling. You want me to _hurt_ you? Then let's get out the ropes."

He nodded, slowly.

"And my box."

She watched him flinch at the mention of it, felt the core of her begin to throb at the expression of fear, and could not contain her smile as she closed the door behind herself and turned the lock.

_Happy anniversary, Tamlin._


	20. Chapter 20

Lucien knew he was undone when he felt his glamour fade away.

He was still on his horse, only a few hours past the border for the Night Lands. The mountain ranges loomed high above. They were young mountains, with razor-sharp, snow-capped peaks that pierced even the clouds. He was riding through a narrow pass that went straight through them, put down by some ancient, powerful High Lord to make a direct route. He wondered, idly, what had made it so important to that ancient Night Lord to have such a quick way to get to the Day Court.

He'd have to ride hard for Hewn City, try to make it into their eerie, frightening court, and beg for an audience with whoever was acting Regent in Rhysand's place. The Night Court had not originally been his choice - he still needed to visit Thesan at the Dawn Court and work out his plan to deal with his murderous brothers at Autumn Court. There was a piece somewhere Under the Mountain, too. And the final riddle, one that seemed to be no particular court.

He had Feyre's body, the sword, a necklace, a white stone eye. Only a few more pieces to the puzzle and then maybe he'd see how they fit.

_Give me blood, _the sword whispered.

"Again? How often do you need it, anyway?"

_I don't. I just want it._

Lucien gritted his teeth. The sword bothered him. Its song was too focused on finding excuses to kill something. And every time he gave it blood, so far only his own, he felt… complete. As if the sword was an extension of him, a part missing that he'd only just found. An inanimate object.

_I could be animate, if you wanted, for a while. I could look like anyone. I could be a woman for you. I draw blood with my lovers, though. Fair warning._

"Were you... animate... for that priestess?"

_No. She had to stay pure for her god. That was annoying._

"How do I... stop... with you?"

_You don't._

"Fucking. Binding. Curses."

_That's not what I am. At least, you're not the one who is bound._

"Then what are you-"

He felt it, suddenly. A settling in his chest of power he had left behind. The return of the glamour's magic. It faded, unmade itself, and Lucien's eyes went wide.

"No. No no no no no. Not _now…_"

There was a rush of darkness and wind and Lucien flailed and fell off his horse entirely. Just as he opened his mouth to call out, he felt a cold, strangely textured hand clap over his, a strange pair of arms wrap around him. There was a sense of a great pair of wings.

They were gone.

His horse reared back in a panic, snorted, and then ran wildly down the pass, empty saddle shifting.

* * *

Lucien fell about three feet onto Tamlin's bedroom floor. He stumbled up immediately, drawing his sword, hearing its song suddenly swell, the sweet and jubilant harmonies. "What the f-"

"Sheathe your sword," A deadly, flat voice from an Illyrian warrior lying on the floor a few feet away, breathing in harsh gasps, wings pulled in tight.

"Not until you tell me what the fuck just happened," Lucien hissed down at him, backing slowly away. He knew well enough to know a prone Illyrian was no less dangerous than a standing one. The strange man wore the heavy leathers of the Illyrian soldiers, with a blade strapped on his back, and the Siphons on hs gauntlets glowed. The Illyrian's eyes, on the other hand, were focused on Lucien's sword.

"What is that?" The Illyrian asked, staring at its shabby scabbard, the runes carved in, contrasted with the beautifully glowing, shining blade, the dancing echo of its song. Those eyes were as flat as the voice, and cold. The Illyrian's face was almost absurdly beautiful, but those eyes… it was like looking into the eyes of a skull.

"Nothing," Lucien snapped. "It's just a sword. You haven't seen one before?" The sword whispered sweet promises to him. _Give me his blood, I could be so many things for you. He would bleed well. I could make him tell you his name._

"I can hear you, you know," the Illyrian said mildly, and the sword went suddenly quiet. "And I intended to give you my name regardless." He pushed himself to standing, shoulders back, chin held high. It occurred to Lucien that the other man was absolutely exhausted, and hiding it well. "I am Azriel," He murmured. "Rhysand's shadowsinger."

Lucien blinked, the sword dropping slightly where he'd been holding it out. "I had entered the Night Lands, and my… did you…"

"No. I'm sorry. I don't… winnow well. I'm even worse if I take someone with me. I barely got us here. But... I didn't have time for explanations and you are about to have a visitor, Lucien Vanserra. Sheathe your sword."

There was a knock on the door to Tamlin's room. Lucien looked that way, then back at the shadowsinger, who simply melted back into the shadow in the corner and was gone.

Lucien, ignoring the disappointed murmurings from the sword, sheathed it and braced himself as the door opened. It was one of the servants, whose eyes widened with relief. "Ah, the Regent! So glad to find you right here! You are expected downstairs. We have been... tending to your guests." The servant's voice dropped into a whisper. "Lucien, they _know_."

"They know about?" Lucien's heart dropped to his knees, thinking about what would happen if he were caught with Rhysand's shadowsinger. He imagined the Attor itself in the mausoleum, the idea of seeing Feyre, even if only her body, ripped apart once again. Of this final hope dashed.

Would Amarantha simply believe it was all some strange grief? Or would she know what he was trying to do?

"How you've put up a glamour so you can sneak onto the grounds," the servant said carefully, one eyebrow raised. "That you could not bear the terms of your house arrest and spend much of your time in the woods."

"I… yes, of course," Lucien replied, throwing on a glamour that covered his darker skin, sun-bleached hair, the way even his body had adapted after months spent in the saddle. "Unfortunate that they have discovered it." He wore his own face as a costume, adjusted the sword at his belt. Stood up straight. Fixed on his unhappy scowl.

"Show me the way."

The servant nodded, and gestured down the hall.

Lucien walked behind him, wondering if the shadowsinger continued to trail them. Rosehall had not exactly degraded, since he'd left, but it didn't look any better. The house seemed like its own ghost, and he could swear he heard it creak and moan on the foundation as the breeze blew outside. He was… almost ashamed, that the shadowsinger would see this. But at the same time, Rosehall had always been tied to Tamlin in a way that no other High Lord's main residence seemed to be.

If Tamlin was in despair, somewhere, so was his house.

He was escorted to the main dining room, where the Attor and an array of Amarantha's creatures waited for him. Lucien inclined his head, and when the Attor gestured to a seat, he did not argue. He sat down, but kept one hand on the hilt of his sword. The creatures seemed to fan out in a half-circle behind and around him while the Attor stood in front.

_Give me blood._

"Your servants tell me you have violated the terms of your imprisonment within the manor," The Attor hissed. Lucien forced himself to stare right into its face, even as his stomach flipped and his heart pounded in his throat.

"I have," He said, each word clipped and angry. "I make no apologies for it. The imprisonment was pointlessly cruel and I needed to be able to care for my lord's lands in his absence."

_I could kill them all, become animate, and we could make love in their blood._ Lucien tried not to visibly make a face, putting a hand on the hilt of the sword to quiet it. It purred a soft melody in his mind.

"Normally I would be ordered to punish you most severely," The Attor said, radiating a smugness that Lucien did not truly understand. "But given the sad tidings I bring to you, my Queen wishes to offer you mercy and to forget the whole thing as a way of giving her condolences."

"Sad… tidings?" It couldn't be. "Her condolences-"

_Tamlin- what if she- _No. Rosehall would crash to the ground if Tamlin died Under the Mountain. Or some new High Lord would appear.

"Your brothers are dead," The Attor continued, in what it probably thought sounded like a lover's voice. Or maybe it _was_, for an Attor. Who knew what mating looked like to them? "Slaughtered at the hand of your lord. Queen Amarantha wanted to ensure you knew before the knowledge became common. Family being foremost, and all."

"How?" Lucien's mind whirred but he could see nothing but his brothers' faces. Not the cruel, angry, vengeful versions of them who had been hounding him for a century. The children. When he was young, and they were only a bit older, and his father's cruelty had not yet ruined them all… "How did he kill them?"

The Attor laughed, a sibilant chuckle. "He tore them to pieces in cold blood."

Lucien's head spun. "Which ones?" His lips were numb. "Which of my brothers? Are they… all gone?" Please, _please_ don't let him be the last remaining son and his father's only heir-

"Eris remains," The Attor hissed in its creaking, tree-like voice. "Eris, and your father, who has demanded the head of the lord who slew his children in recompense."

So that was the reason for the smugness. Lucien lowered his gaze, slowly, staring at the table. He needed to know more. He needed to keep the Attor talking. And he needed to hope that the shadowsinger was hiding nearby, listening. "Am-... would the Queen agree to such a sentence? I was under the impression that she… took possession of Tamlin herself. That she believes he and the Night Lord to be best," and he had to swallow back the disgust, "… combined."

"It's true," The Attor said thoughtfully. "Your lord and Rhysand are her playthings and my Queen covets her toys. She enjoys them together." There was a sense of malevolent amusement radiating off of it. Lucien did not look up. "I don't think she has quite exhausted the list of things she has always wished to have two High Lords for. She will be the one to decide when his life ends, and no other. But I imagine she will still put on quite a show. And the Autumn Lord will receive his vengeance."

"Why are you telling me this?" Lucien still did not look up. His face burned, but he had to be careful. He was Tamlin's diplomat, he was the one who knew how to play a part and get a little more information out of it than he would have otherwise. He had pretended to be cowed by Tamlin's submission to her, to keep her from looking too closely. He couldn't change things now. "Why inflict pain with news like this? I am no longer a part of my father's court."

"True," It hissed. "But as Regent of the Spring Court, your presence will be required during the sentencing of the High Lord for the murders he committed against another High Lord's children."

Lucien looked up sharply, put on a mask of fear. A cowed, scared regent, who had assumed he could hide here forever while his lord suffered on his behalf. _As if I'd simply sit on my hands, hiding away, like the cowards at the Night Court have done. _

Except that one of them was currently hiding somewhere in this room. Which suggested they had decided to stop hiding and start doing something. _Maybe not such cowards, then. _They must have received his letter.

"Surely I'm not required-"

"You will attend," The Attor hissed, and he let his eyes drop again. "I will send a messenger when it is time. You will arrive through the tunnels. Alone. Is that understood, Lucien Vanserra?"

Lucien gritted his teeth. Slowly, as though each movement were being pulled out like teeth, he nodded. Once. Twice.

The Attor laughed, as did the creatures around him.

Lucien stared fixedly at the table as they filed out, one by one. Once they were gone - once his lingering regent power let him know that they had headed into the tunnels and genuinely left his realm behind entirely - he let out a rush of breath, collapsing backward into his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

_We could have taken all of them, _the sword whispered in his ear.

Tamlin murdered three of his brothers. They'd already killed two, when they'd come after him trying to finish what they'd started with his lover's death. Only Eris was left. Lucien tried to find some hint of grief within himself. They had been terrible, and had tried to kill him, but… they were his brothers. He knew his mother loved them unreservedly, no matter their cruelty.

So why could he feel no grief for them? Just a sense of relief? _Don't forget about the pretty angel behind the curtains, _his sword sang softly.

"I told you, I can hear you, sword," Azriel said mildly, apparently unoffended, as he stepped out. He looked in the direction the Attor had gone, thoughtfully. "I am sorry to hear about your brothers."

"I'm not," Lucien replied, closing his eyes. "I probably should be, but I'm not. If Eris is the only one left… that's better for everyone in the court."

"Even if he swears all the soldiers at his command to Amarantha's army? And ensures they are loyal to her?"

He blinked his eyes back open, turning slowly to look at the shadowsinger, whose expression had not changed. "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know why. But I know he did. And I have reason to believe Tamlin was only a weapon in your brothers' murders, and that Amarantha wielded him at your brother's request. All of this punishment, this vengeance for Beron… it's a show."

"You know an awful lot, for someone who has been hiding while his lord suffers for five decades," Lucien said evenly, staring right at those cold, cold eyes in that beautiful face.

"It is my job to know," Azriel said mildly in return. "The same way that I know that the mortal woman who lived here for a time loved to paint, but hid her paintings away in a secret room. The same way I know that Tamlin intended to send her back to the mortal lands to protect her, to go back to a father and sisters who did not care for her. The same way that I know that you loved her, too, and that if she had not been meant to save your lord you would have moved heaven and earth to keep her here with you."

Lucien's eyes went wide, and he pushed himself to his feet, the chair clattering onto its side behind him, forgotten. "How do you- how _dare you insinuate-_"

"I make no insinuations, and no judgements," Azriel said quietly. "I say these things only to help you understand that knowledge is what I am. It is what I do. I have knowledge like this for every court, and even some areas of the mortal lands. We received your letter, and although my compatriots were uncertain, I… saw things that told me what I needed to do. I came to you and winnowed you here so that Amarantha would never know you had left." He looked around, his eyes dancing off the spring sunshine coming in through the windows and lighting the room, Tamlin's rustic, hunter's-lodge-style decorations.

"You intend to help me?" Lucien asked, taking the man in as if for the first time. He was small, smaller than Illyrian warriors Lucien had seen in the past. Skinny, for one of them, although just as heavily muscled. That beautiful face would have turned heads of males and females throughout the world, if not for those cold, calculating, inhuman, unfae eyes. If not for the absolute blankness of his face, the way he seemed more like some kind of golem trying to pretend at being a fae than anything truly alive.

"I do," Azriel inclined his nod in a slow nod, folding his hands in front of him, an easy casual Illyrian stance. "I intend to help you free my lord and yours."

"You've done… nothing, for fifty years," Lucien said softly, feeling the rage bubbling under the surface. "None of you have. Rhysand has been a bastard for centuries but he is your lord, and you only move to help him now?"

"There were… mitigating circumstances. I have reason to believe those circumstances will soon no longer apply. So yes, I want to help you."

Lucien frowned. "I have to visit every faerie land, and I never made it to the Night Court, or Dawn-"

"I will help you. I don't know what you have planned but... I agree with you, Lucien Vanserra. Fifty years of sitting on my ass was fifty years too long. We made a mistake." A rare moment of true emotion, of determination, echoed through Azriel's voice. Lucien blinked as he realized there was real pain in those eyes. "Tell me what you need from the Night Court and I will ensure we get it."

Lucien waited a second, letting the silence stretch. He remembered the Suriel's second warning, to trust the shadows, and exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Then he nodded, reached into the hidden pocket inside his shirt, and pulled the faded, crumbled, folded-up piece of paper. "Listen, and tell me what this means," He said, before reading the riddle aloud.

_Night keeps safe the dreamer who sings_

_I fear no war and move mountains in the dark_

_Serve a false queen with far away strings_

_Silver catch and light the spark_

When he finished, he looked back up at Azriel, who stared back at him in absolute silence. There was a long, long pause as the two men took each other's measure. Finally, Lucien was the first to break. "Well? Do you know what it means? What the Night Court piece of this puzzle may be?"

Azriel swallowed, then nodded. "I do."

Another pause. Lucien tried not to sound annoyed. "... and…?"

Azriel looked him right in the eyes, a ghost of a smile dancing across his face. "You're a lucky man, Lucien Vanserra. The thing you are searching for in the Night Court is me."


	21. Chapter 21

Lucien opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was a beat of silence. Finally… "I'm sorry, _what did you say?_"

Azriel glanced around and, finding a bench, settled himself on to it, folding his wings tightly against his back. After a moment, Lucien righted his own fallen chair and sat himself back down. There were so many better chairs at the table, and Azriel had chosen a bench? But then it occurred to him: the wings. Tamlin had banned Illyrians from his court a long time ago, and all chairs had high, straight backs.

"It's me," Azriel replied, folding his hands in his lap. His armor seemed almost to bristle, and Lucien wondered exactly how many blades he had secreted away under those scales, not counting the larger one strapped to his back. "I am the answer to the riddle. I am the thing you need from the Night Court."

"Everything else has been relics," Lucien said carefully, trying to think. "Or Feyre herself. Feyre is the Spring Court, this sword is the Summer Court-"

_Hello, lover, _the sword sang.

"-and it's _really annoying_, I have a Winter Court heirloom necklace that came from the affair of a mortal and a High Fae which ended in both of their deaths… I received the eye of a fallen mortal magic-user in the desert of the Day Court... " Lucien ticked them off on his fingers, thinking. "All of these are _things."_

"So am I, in this case," Azriel said quietly.

Lucien closed his eyes, absentmindedly feeling at the scar that ran over his eyebrow and down his cheek, the soft whirring of his metal eye a constant presence, a sound he didn't even notice any longer unless he really made himself think about it. "You are going to have to explain."

"I see things," Azriel said quietly. "Sometimes. Things that have happened, or will happen. Could happen. Nothing's ever certain…"

Lucien thought of those myriad pasts and futures and presents all pushed together in the Glass, the versions of him kneeling before Amarantha, arguing with Tamlin about Feyre, begging a strange man to save a woman he had never met before, throwing a jacket over her shoulders. Of a younger version of himself, proposing to a female who would soon be dead. "I understand that part, at least."

"Since Rhysand went Under the Mountain and did not return," Azriel said quietly, "I have seen things, from time to time, that I tell no one about. The visions are three things that happen simultaneously, in different worlds. It is always the same. In one version, I have an ash-wood arrow through my heart, but I do not die. Cas almost loses his wings just trying to protect me. In another, I am cut down in battle with Amarantha. To save me, Cas becomes her war leader, knowing that when I heal I would follow him into hell. In the third…" He took a deep breath, shadows wreathing his wrists, like friends laying a comforting hand on your arm. "In the third, something… dear to Rhys, and to those of us in the Night Court, falls - I go Under the Mountain. I follow Cas to hell. But afterward, Rhys gets back up. And... that thing that is dear to us... gets back up, too."

Lucien nodded slowly, thoughtfully, then leaned over, his elbows on his knees, watching Azriel. "I am going to ask you three questions, and I expect absolute honesty in response to all three."

A silent moment. Then, a nod. "I will ask you three questions in return, same terms."

"Done."

The bargain made, the High Fae and the Illyrian, pointed ears and curved, metal eye and leathery wings, stared each other down.

"My first question," Lucien began. "Why do you believe that you are the answer to the riddle?"

"That'd take too long to answer. But, to keep a very long story short, because the same vision in which our hopes fall is the one in which I stand by the side of something terrible to save it." Lucien opened his mouth as if to ask his second question and then hesitated, weighing it. Azriel smiled and added, "Yes, before you ask, that 'something terrible' is almost certainly what you are trying to make with the objects you are hunting and yes, you are also standing beside it, with your incredibly annoying sword."

_I could eat your dick for breakfast._

"Dare you to try," Azriel answered easily. Even though his voice was teasing, his face was exactly the same flat nothing expression. Like he'd forgotten how to make the right face to match his voice, or didn't know how.

Lucien's eyebrows raised, impressed. "I owe you a fourth question, it seems."

"Don't worry about it. Ask your second."

"What are you to Rhysand?" He held up a hand as Azriel went to open his mouth. "I know you said shadowsinger. That's your job title, not what you are to him. My job title may be Regent, or emissary, but what I _am_ to Tamlin is a friend. Family."

"Right. To Rhysand, I am… also brother, friend, and annoyance. Seer and shadowsinger. Occasional pain in his ass."

"Final question. Do you intend to go Under the Mountain with me to witness Tamlin's sentencing for killing my brothers?"

"I do." Azriel frowned, his wings pulling in more tightly, thinking of that dark, enclosed place. Lucien knew exactly what he was thinking: _nowhere to run, nowhere to fly_. "I intend to be in the shadows."

"Luck to you. I'll use what of Tamlin's powers I've been given as Regent to shield the scent of the Night Court on you, so no one will notice the errant magic."

"Thank you. Now it's my turn." Azriel looked at him, scanning him from head to toe. Lucien dropped the glamour he'd had on himself and the sun-lightened hair, tougher skin, and leaner body was immediately evident. "Do you still believe the Night Court is your enemy?"

Lucien barked a bitter humorless laugh. "If what I've heard about our lords is true, they are definitely not enemies by now. Although most of the Spring Court seems to believe Rhys has rewritten Tamlin's mind."

Azriel winced, only slightly. "He hasn't. He… wouldn't. Not for that reason. Besides, I didn't ask about whether or not you believe _Rhys _is your enemy."

"No, I know you didn't. Sorry. I'm not sure, but Tamlin is in danger and you… and whoever else Rhysand is close to… know more about it than I do. I don't particularly care if the Night Court considers itself the Spring Court's… nemesis, or something. I think we have a bigger problem right now." Lucien's warm golden eye, and the cool metal of the other one, met Azriel's cold hazel.

"That we agree on. I think if our lords hadn't been so busy inventing reasons to hold grudges, you would have been an interesting person to know, Lucien Vanserra."

Lucien found himself grinning widely. Even Azriel flickered a cool smile in return, considering his next question.

"Second question. Do you have _any idea _what is going to happen when we put all the pieces of these riddles together?"

"We?" Lucien asked, eyebrows somewhere near his forehead with surprise.

"We," Azriel said firmly.

Lucien took a deep breath. "No. I have no idea. Other than... I have a thought. There's an old faerie story from when I was a child, something Eris used to tell me sometimes." If Azriel noticed the twist of pain and loss in his face, the shadowsinger did not mention it. "It might relate to that."

"A children's story?"

"Most mortal faerie tales are at least based in something that happened to us, aren't they? I'm not really sure, though. The Suriel was… not forthcoming, beyond the riddles. And it seemed like it… like the riddles were pulled out of it against its will. I am traveling to put the pieces together. Once I have them all, there's… one more riddle, at the end, that isn't about the pieces, but what I'm supposed to do with them."

"Third question. Can I go to the Dawn Court with you?"

Lucien choked on nothing, coughing a little too hard, before looking up. "_What?_"

"I want to find the Dawn Court's piece with you. You have done this yourself, so far. Let me help."

"I'm not sure that's the wisest…"

"Why not?"

"Um." Lucien frowned, blew air out through his nose, absently tucked a bit of auburn hair behind one ear. "You have gigantic wings."

"And?"

"They're… really noticeable."

"Then glamour them."

_Also, every time you look right at me I feel like you can see all the way to my skeleton and you're not exactly impressed by it._

"I… fine. Yes. We'll do the Dawn Court together. I won't ask why. When I finish with the Dawn Court, I will need to travel… to the Autumn Court, I suppose. I was going to go Under the Mountain, but… if Eris is the only one left…"

"Can you speak directly with him?"

Lucien gave Azriel an even, measuring stare. "What do you know about what happened to me? When I left?"

"Very little. Only Rhys's version of the story, which I have to admit was… not flattering, to you or Tamlin. Although he did once describe Tamlin taking you in as 'the only good thing he's ever done in his miserable life', so..."

"I fell in love," Lucien said quietly. "With Jesminda. She was beautiful, and not High Fae. She was… so _funny, _Azriel." The Illyrian watched him intently, without saying a word. Lucien felt tears prick his good eye even now, just thinking of her face. "I can't even tell you… she was so funny, fiery and laughing all the time. She was so _perfect._ But not High Fae. I didn't care - I didn't _care._ I wasn't going to be my father's heir, I'm not the eldest and I never had the… sense of it. Everyone knew I wasn't going to be High Lord. I thought I could… just run away, and that my father would roll his eyes or maybe beat me bloody a couple more times and then he'd let us go." Lucien's gaze had gone distant. He blinked, and one of the tears ran down his face. He didn't notice - Azriel did.

"When they found out about her… Even then, I thought… you know, when you grow up in a household like mine, you assume they don't give a shit what you do, not really. But it turned out… It doesn't matter. They tortured her. Eris was the only one who didn't take part. And they had the fucking _gall _to be surprised when I ran away."

"Eris didn't take part?" Azriel asked, seemingly idly.

"Yes. He didn't touch her. But he was _right. there._"

"So speaking with him may not be easy."

"Easier than any of the rest of them. Thank the Mother, my other brothers are dead, they'd kill me on sight. But I can't guarantee I can get us into the Autumn Court without a lot of danger. I'd… rather avoid that, until the end. Especially if you're going with me."

Azriel quirked the slightest little smile, a faint expression. "I appreciate your concern, but I am probably more dangerous than all the soldiers of the Autumn Court combined. And… the visions-"

"I want a fourth question," Lucien said suddenly. "Since I told you about Jesminda."

Azriel paused, swallowed. Considered the scars on his hands. Then he looked up. "Ask."

"What, exactly, do you believe is going to happen in the future?"

Azriel flickered his strange cold half-smile again, there and then gone. Lucien could see, he thought a hint of worry in hazel eyes. "I am going to have to do the most frightening thing I can think of for a while," He said, quietly. "We are not going to win, at first, Lucien. At first, we are going to lose. We _have to lose, _and _badly_, in order to save something precious to me. Amarantha will have to feel that she has won, and that we have no chance. Do you understand?"

"No," Lucien said softly. "When she came and took Tamlin… when _Rhysand came and laughed in his face about it… _we had already lost, here. But keep talking."

"I'm sorry." Nothing about Azriel's tone or face said whether the apology was sincere or an absolute mockery. Lucien decided not to press it. "I will follow you to the Dawn Court. I will follow you for a while. You will have to finish the last bits alone. Because when we get to the end..." His wings shivered behind him. "I don't know what I'll be by then."

"Is this… set in stone? I saw a lot of futures, in the Glass," Lucien said, ignoring the curiosity on Azriel's face. "I saw _a lot_ of futures." He'd seen even more in the Spirit's bed, he thought, trying to ignore the hint of blush that tried to rise in his face. That had been an... interesting side effect of bedding her. "And none of them were certain. You _yourself_ said nothing is certain."

Except that the voice of the Spirit of the Glass was in the back of his mind. _ I think you must seek out the man who will be tied to the throne. He is in many futures. _

Lucien stared at Azriel, eyes wide. _He is always tied to the throne, before the end._ Azriel seemed to mistake the expression for disbelief.

"Listen to me. My people do not know I'm not coming back, at least not right away. I lied to them. But this is the only way I can see where Rhys walks free in the end. Where Amarantha isn't actually victorious. Every other vision... she ends up owning Prythian, body and soul. All of us. I am… going to put an entire way of life at risk. I already have. But I believe what will result from that is worth it, and I will lie to _you_, if I have to. What I have seen is important."

"And if your... brother winnows in here and asks me why you came here and never came back?"

Azriel smiled. It was a smile absolutely devoid of warmth. "Then I expect you to become a _very_ good liar, very quickly. And to learn to dodge."

_I could take them all on, _the sword murmured in his mind. _Pretty Illyrians fall apart if you catch their wings._

"Cassian would either love or hate you," Azriel said out loud. "I cannot decide which."

"I know which one _I _pick," Lucien muttered.

_Give me blood, bird._

Azriel blinked, looking at the sword with curiosity. "Whose?"

_His. Yours. I don't care. I sing for Lucien Vanserra but I will take blood from anyone._

Azriel leaned in more closely, looking at the runes written in the scabbard. "What _are_ you, sword?"

There was a silence. Then, in a tone of consummate dry humor, _I am a sword._

Lucien actually laughed, and felt a shimmer of happiness from the sword in his mind. It stopped the laughter cold. That sense in his mind, of its thoughts and feelings. It felt like…

Azriel looked slowly up at Lucien. "Give it mine. My blood."

"Are you… joking?" The sword sang with excitement and Lucien tried to ignore it. "It's a mysterious sword I picked up in the tomb of a people who loathed our existence, and who we almost certainly murdered by the thousands, that eats blood and won't leave me alone. Are you _sure_ that's the sword you want to make friends with?"

Azriel had a smile on his face, although a small one. "Yes. That is the_ only_ kind of sword I want to make friends with. I'm sure."

"... Rhysand comes from an entire race of absolute lunatics," Lucien muttered, but he took out the sword and held it in his hands in front of him. The blade seemed to shimmer, and in the back of Lucien's mind a delighted song had begun to ring, a rhythm, a melody, a harmony. "How can you even hear it? No one else seems to be able to."

"Because your sword was made from very old shadows," Azriel replied, tilting his head when he looked at it. "I know shadows."

Azriel reached out without hesitation and drew the center of his palm along the blade, wincing only slightly as his blood blossomed out of the wound. The sword drank it in, drank and drank and drank. Lucien only stared, still holding it, seemingly frozen. The song in his mind was louder, louder, _louder_-

Azriel's wound healed, and the sword grew quiet. Each time he had given it his own blood, Lucien had felt that distant certainty of affection, a connection that strengthened. With Azriel's blood, the feeling was infinitely stronger. The sword had eaten the shadows that clung to Azriel everywhere he went, had drunk them in, taken them into itself.

The feeling wasn't at all what he had expected it to be. It was an audible click, a snap into place. Lucien sat back, still staring down at his sword, which seemed to look hungrily back.

_I could be a woman, too. Or a man. Which would you prefer? I could look like him. Or the golden girl inside your head._

Azriel raised an eyebrow. "Lucien, did you just get a mating bond with a sword that drinks blood?"


	22. Chapter 22

Rhysand was not quite out of his mind with worry, but he was definitely… mind-adjacent with it. If he were honest with himself, which he tried not to be… he was terrified for Tamlin.

He hadn't seen Tamlin in nearly three days. He'd been ordered by Amarantha not to leave his room, at the end of the night, and the signs he'd found that Tamlin had been there - a bloody blanket on the floor and blood-spattered pants, signs a bath had been taken but that whoever took it didn't even clean up after, leaving a cold pool full of pink-tinted water, that food had been picked over but not really eaten - worried him. The bed had not been slept in, and Tamlin never came back.

And Amarantha had ordered him, _ordered him, _not to leave. It was _that _that bothered him the most. She didn't want to gloat, or hold Tamlin over him. She wanted him trapped here, waiting, not knowing. And if there was anything on Prythian Rhysand truly hated, it was not being able to have an advance plan, not knowing what would come next. Nuala and Cerridwen hadn't even come by to report. He was alone, and he had no idea why.

Rhysand had spent his time trying to remind himself that he did not care _that_ much about Tamlin and could in no possible way be worried about him, looking around at a room that increasingly had too many touches of Tamlin to simply forget that everything between them had changed. His mother's books were piled up in the corner, along with that damn book of limericks he inexplicably loved. His clothing lay around.

Like they lived together, rather than this being a shared prison cell.

Rhysand could bide his time with the best of them, and settled in to brood with a determination that rivaled any he had ever shown before in his life. Eventually, he even read one of Tamlin's ridiculous books, about a princess put to sleep in a tall tower. Eventually Nuala and Cerridwen returned, and with rising horror he listened to their story about Lucien's brothers and what Tamlin had done. Done, and then… disappeared, afterward.

Disappeared. Down in the dungeons being tortured? Rhysand felt a thrill of fear up his spine, alongside a boiling rage. He'd slaughter whoever touched a hair on his blond head.

_Why the fuck do you care about who touches his head? Why do you care if he's hurt? _

"He could be executed for this," Nuala murmured, looking genuinely upset, which startled and unnerved him. "Az-... I mean, someone said he won't be…"

"He _won't,_" Cerridwen murmured, holding her sister's hand in both of her own. "Amarantha would never allow him to be killed, not now."

"I believe Cerridwen is right," Rhysand drawled, keeping his mask on, even as his mind whirled with fear on the inside, and he... didn't really believe that at all. Who even knew what Amarantha would do for her own amusement?

He reminded himself that he was a cruel High Lord who cared about nothing, and it didn't matter if Tamlin died or not. Inside his own mind he was climbing the ceiling wishing he knew where he _was_ right now. Being tortured by Beron or Eris? His skin crawled. He'd tear their eyes out himself for hurting his-

_When did this happen? _He'd done unforgivable things to Tamlin, at her command. And… regretted them.

"My lord…" Nuala began, nervously. "What was that pollen? It didn't affect me, or Cerridwen, or Amarantha. Eris didn't seem worried about it. But the Spring Lord…"

"The Spring Lord wasn't even in there any longer, in his own head. If she had asked him to slit his own throat, he would have," Cerridwen said flatly. "Like a witches' spell in the human faerie tales."

"That's more or less exactly what it is," Rhysand said, feeling his cruel, emotionless smile on his face, a reassurance that he had not lost his composure, at least. "It's called the Grey Rose, although it's neither a rose nor grey in color. Supposedly comes from some enchantment. If you're the one to physically plant it in the soil, its periodic pollen blooms will bewitch the object of your desire, or… someone you have some sort of intense desire for in some way. It doesn't have to be someone you want to bed. It could also be someone you hate, or want to hurt." They blinked at him, and Rhysand sighed. "It's a drug. A poison. It makes people… suggestible, and makes it difficult to lie. They'll have hallucinations first, see things they're afraid of. Then, when that fear raises their heart rate, it pushes the poison through the blood and the rest of it kicks in. The things you tell them will ring through their mind for days, or weeks, or forever. I have avoided those damn things during their blooming times for fifty years." He frowned, an inward expression. "You said Amarantha spoke to Tamlin for some time. What did she ask him about?"

The twins shared a look. Rhysand heard the scrape of footfalls outside his door and, momentarily distracted, listened to see if perhaps Tamlin had returned, or someone would let him out of this fucking room already.

When he wasn't looking, Nuala shook her head at Cerridwen.

When he looked back, he raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"She just taunted him, as usual," Cerridwen replied smoothly. "After that, she forced him to service her. As usual."

"Hm," Rhysand said thoughtfully. "Strange. Usually you'd only put someone there for a reason, if there was something you really wanted to know." There was another sound outside the door, and the twins faded into the shadows as it opened.

Rhysand stood, keeping his face carefully empty as two guards unceremoniously dumped an unconscious Tamlin onto the floor. Or what was left of him, anyway. Except for the fact that Tamlin coughed a few times, blood leaking from his mouth, Rhys would have thought he was dead. "What is this?" He asked, not quite able to keep the anger from his voice, hoping he sounded annoyed at the inconvenience rather than giving away the spike of fear and worry he felt.

"Amarantha finished with him." One of the guards spat on Tamlin's prone form. Rhysand didn't dare move but found himself breathing heavily through his nose, fighting the fury that rose within him. The other guard kicked Tamlin in the ribs. Rhysand heard a _crack._ "She wanted us to tell him happy anniversary, but this sad little wreck just couldn't last long enough."

Rhysand jerked forward, just slightly, and the guard looked up at him, grinning. It was one of the lesser fae, a hulking thing made seemingly out of the rock of the mountain itself. "Don't even try, you know you've been ordered to never lay a hand on us. She'll tell you when you can come out." Then the two of them left, slamming the door shut behind them.

Rhysand took a deep breath, told himself to calm down, and calmly, carefully, sent out a little of the power he had remaining to him. He grabbed the two guards by their minds, and as they froze with horror, he… rearranged some things. The smile on his face was not kind. But his hands never moved.

"Enjoy spending the rest of your life convinced you are covered in rats, starting tomorrow," He murmured, as the guards just as suddenly started walking again, no memory of the last couple of minutes. "Enjoy what you're about to do to try and escape them. I'll enjoy hearing about your very messy deaths. And Amarantha won't even care about it."

Then he looked down at the bloodied lump of Spring Lord on the ground and sighed. Nuala and Cerridwen stepped carefully over, looking down from either side of him.

"Is he dead?" Nuala asked, blinking back tears. "He looks dead."

"Of course he's not dead," Cerridwen rolled her eyes. "When did _you_ get so fond of the Spring Lord, anyway?"

_A question I would very much like to ask myself._

"He's better than he used to be," Nuala said, quietly. "Sweeter. Less arrogant. You see it too, my lord."

"Don't try to make me take a side," Rhys straightened himself up. "Although… it's possible he's been this way the whole time. He was... kind of sweet, when we were young. There was a reason I liked him so much... It's probably been in him the whole time. He was probably so busy pretending to be the kind of High Lord his father was… You know what, I am not having this conversation. We need to get him into a warm bath to see how much of this blood is from wounds and how much is… smeared."

Nuala and Cerridwen drifted into the bathing room, and Rhysand picked the High Lord of Spring up. He was a pile of dead weight, heavier than he should be. His eyes were open to slits, rolled up in his head with only the whites showing. His arms hung limply and Rhys hissed softly as he realized they had both been broken, snapped in three or four places, that his fingers had been broken too, one by one, all of them. His left leg bent at a bad angle, his right had been simply clawed to shreds. A black eye had bloomed on one side, and his face had been cut to ribbons. His chest was covered with red marks, like someone had dug in fingernails, tiny wounds that still bled. His back was covered in obscene red stripes over the just-healed scars, holes puncturing his skin where it looked like he'd been hung from hooks.

Rhysand tried not to notice those puncture marks were in the shape of wings.

His hair was clumped with dried blood, and there was more blood… everywhere. Rhysand just stared down at him for a moment, taking everything in. Trying to decide where to even start.

_You looked like that, once or twice. And nobody was here to help you, then. You were in here for weeks, just healing yourself a little more each day. _It occurred to him that if this happened to him now, _Tamlin_ would pick up the pieces, rather than Rhysand simply curling up alone. _Tamlin _would put him back together. He was a little frightened of the intensity of reassurance he felt at that thought.

"Upside," He said out loud, more for his own benefit than for the twins to hear, "I think he could heal any of this himself if he were conscious. It'd be tough, to do alone, but he could. None of this is ash-wood wounds. Downside… what the fuck just happened here. Has she had him in her rooms for _three days?_"

"Two," Cerridwen said helpfully. "The first day was the garden." Nuala elbowed her in the ribs.

"She's never returned him like this." She normally stopped before her toys were too damaged to get out on their own power. It must be… he thought of the guard who had kicked Tamlin's body. _Happy anniversary. _"Ah. Must have been her anniversary gift. I forgot that date was so close. She always likes to mark the passage of time. Remind us how long it's been."

He carried Tamlin into the bathing room, where the hot bath was already prepared. The twins watched without reaction as he peeled off the scraps that were left of Tamlin's clothing, setting the bloody strips to the side. Then he gently lowered him into the tub. Tamlin groaned but did not wake up. "Hold his head," Rhysand said softly, a gentleness to him that his shadow-servants had not seen in half a century.

Probably longer.

He called on the bit of power within himself, that curled and sought out the rest, eternally restless, eternally hunting for more of itself, cut off from the larger well of power he'd once been able to draw on at will. As he ran his hands slowly up Tamlin's arms, the broken bones fit back together and healed, one by one. Tracing fingertips along his legs, watching the left knee reassemble itself, the shredded claw marks on his legs fade and dissipate. Once he had taken care of the broken bits, he went to work on the bruises, the snapped rib, the cuts that stood in harsh relief when the old blood was washed away and new blood began to run. By the time he had healed everything, even his somewhat considerable remaining power was nearly gone. He wasn't even sure he could have put together a decent glamour.

He used a cup to scoop up some water and run it over that blond hair, scrubbing the blood out, finding bruises and cuts under that, too, signs that he had hit his head. Repeatedly. Or had it hit for him.

The rage boiled inside of Rhysand, five decades of wrath that honed itself down to a single cause, a single reason. A fury that he could not aim.

Some of the bruises were older than others. Rhysand tried to piece together the past three days as he healed them. Some of what he was healing could have come from the garden, especially the head wounds and the bruises that marked his stomach and chest. Most of it, though, had been added more recently than that. He refreshed the water, to make it clean again.

Rhysand frowned, dismissed the shadow-servants, and removed his own clothing, sliding into the bath as well. He settled himself onto the stone bench that allowed you to sit while you soaked, grabbed the unconscious Tamlin by his shoulders, and gently moved him so his head rested on Rhysand's shoulder.

Rhysand used threads of power to keep the water warm, and waited. And waited. And waited. And all the while, the fury, the helpless screaming fury, raged inside of him without release. Fifty years by himself had been bearable; he was protecting the others that way, keeping his land safe. But with someone here to worry about, someone here he could not protect… it was harder to put the anger away.

Tamlin started to stir, and Rhysand shushed him, softly.

"Wh-what-" Tamlin's voice was hoarse and nearly gone, and he instinctively slid his arms around Rhys, tightening until Rhys's ribs creaked in protest._ That voice... no doubt from screaming, _Rhysand thought, and fought back the darkness that wanted him to beckon it out. If he'd had even half of his true power he'd have left this whole mountain smoldering black embers and nothing more.

"They brought you back," He said softly, without letting go. Tamlin only buried his face into Rhys's neck and he held him, staring straight ahead, trying to keep his expression as empty as Azriel's. "I've healed everything, but I think your muscles will remember you were hurt, so take it easy. You need to rest. We'll get out in a minute and get you into bed."

"You were gone," Tamlin groaned, his lips moving against Rhysand's neck. The High Lord of Night fought to ignore how wonderful those lips really felt._ Not exactly the time or place, Rhys._ "I came back and you were gone. She said… you hated me if you were gone, she said…"

"Sssshhh. You were spelled. Amarantha ordered me away. None of it was true. You can't possibly believe _now_ is when I would start hating you, Tam."

"I don't remember…" Tamlin trailed off. "I woke up in the ropes. She was cutting me, talking to me, when I woke up. I don't know what happened before that."

"I know. I'll explain why later."

"Couldn't-... can't protect you." Tamlin's eyes were closed, shut as tightly as he could as though he were too afraid to look up. "Can't protect you."

Rhys actually laughed, softly, at that. "I appreciate the concern, but if I get my power back I'll be stronger than you, stronger than most of you _combined, _really. I'm not the one who needs protecting." A silence, and then Rhys murmured, "_I'm_ the one who should be sorry I couldn't protect_ you_."

"Worthless," Tamlin murmured, as though he hadn't heard. Rhysand felt the word hit like a body blow. "Just a body to use, right?"

"Are you talking about me, or yourself?" Rhysand kept his tone light but his heart pounded. Those words lived in him like a brand, beat along with his pulse. Half the time he allowed himself to dream about this slavery ending, he wasn't sure he would even be able to go back home. He wasn't sure he could even bear to see them, because of thoughts like that. That they'd see it in his face, feel the brand on his skin. To hear Tamlin say it… _This is what happens to Amarantha's lovers, all right. We all end up like this._

"Worthless," Tamlin whispered again, and the despair in his voice could have made all of Rosehall tremble on its foundations.

"Not that," Rhysand murmured, putting a hand up on his hair. "Listen to me. You're a High Lord, Tamlin. You have the power to rule Spring itself. You stood up to her, you knew better than to trust her when everyone else tried to make nice and knuckle under. Even _I_ bought her act, remember? We argued about it, at the party. You were the _only_ one of us who saw through it. That's worth something."

Tamlin pulled away from him, wincing at even the memory of the pain he must have been in, and looked at Rhysand with dull green eyes. "Rhys. I see it now. I have this stain in me. What I am, what I _do… _that's never going away. Even if she dropped dead tomorrow, I'd still be… this. Inside my head, even if I get to walk away from the mountain. If I went back to Rosehall, they'd see that stain. That I'll still be here, in my head. I'll always _be here._" He took a deep, shaky breath.

Rhysand felt himself shake, a little, as Tamlin's voice spoke out loud his own worst fears. "Part of me is always going to be chained to that bed," Tamlin continued. "I don't ever really get to _leave_, do I?"

The Grey Rose. _It makes you suggestible. _Rhysand closed his eyes briefly, a pained look on his face. _That's why she wanted him under the pollen cloud. She'll have him locking the door to his own prison cell and apologizing for the inconvenience. I wonder what his hallucination, his fear, was. "_That's not how it works, Tamlin. You don't have to become what is done to you. You can be better."

_Try to convince _yourself _of that, Amarantha's whore. Who welcomed another with laughter and mockery, until he realized he had to stay here with him. Who thought he'd leave someone else to suffer in his place and be glad for it. Who beat Tamlin nearly to death and then had to fuck him while he cried so we could calm our bodies down enough to be able to get a healer._

He allowed himself, only briefly, to think about the death he would have ready for Amarantha if he ever had a chance to hurt her. If he was ever free again. He'd always dreamed of slow, torturous deaths but lately he thought it would be better to simply end her existence as quickly as possible.

Tamlin didn't seem to have heard him, trapped inside his own darkness now. "What if we get out of here, and I… want… the things she's done? What if that's who I am now? Feyre would have hated me…" He shook his head, putting his hands up over his eyes. "I don't even think I could touch her anymore. What if I don't ever stop wanting... things?"

"You will be able to stop," Rhysand interrupted, with feeling. For the first time, Tamlin met his eyes, his hands slowly dropping back into the water. Those green eyes, with their constant rotation of gold flecks that seemed to move in different lights. Rhysand's own slightly glowing, intense violet stare. "Feyre would not have _hated you_. Trust me. You have no idea how she would have felt, you barely knew her for... never mind. Look, you don't leave it behind, it's like… a war wound. Part of it sticks with you. But you face it head on, when it hits you, and you do the work, and you heal. We'll _heal_."

Tamlin's voice was small. "Will we, though?"

Something inside of Rhysand snapped. He reached out, grabbing the other man by his shoulders and pulling him close, kissing him, pressing their lips together. When Tamlin's mouth opened to his, their tongues met, and both of them shifted in the water, both of their hearts began to race. When they broke for air, Tamlin buried his head in Rhysand's shoulder again.

"We will," Rhysand hissed, softly. "I'll heal you myself if I have to. I'll visit the Spring Court and refuse to stay anywhere but your bedroom. I'll make them wash the sheets every day and if they ask why I'll tell them _exactly why, in great detail._" He felt Tamlin's shoulders twitch, and realized it was with held-back laughter. A smile began to find its way across his face, something different than his mask, something sincere. "I'll dress up like one of those maidens on Calanmai, see what happens to spring if it's not a _maiden_ the High Lord chooses. I've always wondered what it's like to sleep with a horny god."

More silent, hidden laughter.

"We'll go to a meeting with all the High Lords and dare Thesan and his Peregryn to embarrass everyone as much as we do. We'll make it a contest. I've always thought he's more competitive than he lets on."

There- he heard it, this time. A rush of air. Not exactly a sound, but... laughing, nonetheless.

"I'll bring you to the Night Court and introduce you as mine and we can spend the whole time watching the variety of faces my brother Cassian makes, and trust me, it _will be a variety._"

Tamlin, finally, laughed out loud.

"We'll _baffle_ them with each other, Spring. We'll scandalize the whole damned world with it. I don't care. The world already thinks I'm a decadent monster. I'll just add one more check mark on their list." He traced the scars on Tamlin's cheek, fingers following the shapes in a circle that then wound down to his neck and over his collarbone. Those beautiful scars.

"She told me I'm worthless," Tamlin whispered, but his voice was a little stronger. "I'll never be able to be loved. That they'll always see this darkness, what… I've done. She'd know, wouldn't she? If she were alive. Feyre would know, as soon as she saw me."

Rhysand gently moved Tamlin to face him again. "You are not worthless," He said firmly. "You are worthy of love. Take it from someone who_ does _know."

"How do you know?" Rhysand could have happily slaughtered half the world if it would have removed the despair in those green-gold eyes, removed the darkness in his head.

_I swore I would kill him, not so long ago._

"I know because _I_ love you."


	23. Chapter 23

They stayed in the room until Beron and the rest of the Autumn Court arrived. If Amarantha thought it was a punishment, she was wrong, but neither of them wanted her to realize her error. Although Rhys worried, out loud, a few times, that it wasn't an error at all, but something purposeful that he didn't understand.

They spent a week… laughing, mostly. Tamlin told him stories, about Nynsar and Calanmai holidays that had gone wildly and hilariously off track. About the time he had found Lucien upside down inside a barrel that had once contained beer, claiming that he'd simply stuck his head in and drunk the whole thing himself. Rhys laughed, and asked him questions, and occasionally needled him about his own historical stupidity, but Tamlin noticed… Rhys never volunteered details of his own.

_Even now, there are still lies he tells. _

Tamlin found it bothered him less than it had, before. Or maybe he just found it easier to drown himself in the idea that the violet eyes weren't on him because of an order, or a command, but because Rhys just… wanted to look at him.

_I know because I love you._

They had been spending a lot of time in bed, too, learning about each other in gentler ways. Trying to figure out a version of them that did not have a third voice whispering poison in their ears. At least there, Tamlin thought, Rhysand did not lie.

When the guards came for them, he and Rhysand were lying in bed, fully dressed, both staring up into the shadows of the ceiling. Rhys, through the powers he still had access to, knew that something had happened, that the Autumn Court had arrived. That whatever was going to happen, it would happen today. Tamlin still couldn't remember exactly what had occurred after he had slaughtered three of Lucien's brothers. Weirdly, Rhys, who sometimes seemed to know everything, was silent on this.

They'd been told he would be put to death for it. Rhys had been snappish and irritable ever since, the closest he ever came to showing fear. Tamlin, though, found himself hardly frightened at all. Half of it his same wild death wish, the idea that all of this could end, half of it simply that he didn't believe that Amarantha, who had waited fifty years to force him into this, would give him up after only one.

The guards opened the door, and the two of them stood. Tamlin looked back at Rhys, who inclined his head and held out one hand. "After you," The High Lord of the Night Court purred.

Tamlin laughed. It was a quiet sound, and behind Rhys's answering smile he could see his worry, his fear.

The guards were disgusted, and Tamlin simply… didn't care. He didn't care when they smacked the back of his head to get him moving, or how they felt about it. Or that all the weight of expectation and judgement and tradition would be utterly undone by the fact that someone else, someone like Rhysand, loved him.

They entered a fully packed court, and Tamlin kept his head high. Rhysand, behind him, had his usual careless smirk plastered on his face. The court came to a hush. Had to be hundreds of them packed tightly into the hall, all staring in his direction. The short-haired High Lord of Spring, murderer of the Autumn Court's sons, Amarantha's whore, who knelt to the Lord of Night.

Amarantha wore black, for once, herself. She had on a dress that was deceptively high-necked, sleeveless, a swath of crystalline black from hem to neck. When she stood up out of her chair, looking at them, the cascade of braided red hair seemed to be a wave, a curtain. She would have been strangely, devastatingly beautiful if it weren't for the eternal ugliness of her expressions. When she turned to address the court, he saw that her dress was completely backless, and she had bare feet again.

"High Lord of Spring, Tamlin, and High Lord of the Court of Night, Rhysand," She announced to the hall, her voice calm and even, but… was there a slight shake? Tamlin, for the first time today, felt a little nervous.

His eyes swept the crowd, and he jumped, just a little, as he saw Lucien's golden eye watching him from the front, off to the side. The first time he'd seen him in a year, and Lucien… Lucien simply shook his head, just a little, and looked away. The other High Lords stood in attendance, too, each one with a carefully empty face, although Tarquin's bright eyes burned with fury in his dark face. He noticed, finally, Beron, standing alone. No… not alone. Eris was just behind him.

No High Lords wanted to stand with him, the only High Lord so far to openly work with Amarantha and shun any court that didn't. Beron, the High Lord of Autumn, and his only living acknowledged heir, Eris, stepped forward.

Where Beron's thin face was built from cruel lines and hatred, Eris seemed softer somehow. More deceptive. Beron's lips were curled in an angry sneer, and Eris had… nothing there. When he met Tamlin's eyes, a slight smile curved his lips and then disappeared.

Tamlin thought of the way Eris had closed the door behind him when he walked away, the turn of the lock. He took in a deep breath. _Eris wanted every one of them to die._ And used Tamlin to do it.

"My sons' murderer." Beron spoke and fixed Tamlin with his gaze. His hands were folded in front of him. "How did it feel, killing _even more of my children_ than you did before?" His voice was ice and fire, hatred incarnate.

"It was long overdue." Tamlin growled.

"Careful," Rhys murmured from behind him.

Amarantha stepped down from her throne, down from the dais, meeting them there in the middle of the floor. "Tamlin, you stand accused of the murder of Trennon, Merron, and Dynlew of the Autumn Court. I will stand as judge. Beron stands as executioner."

"Shouldn't you ask me how I plead?" Tamlin asked, surprisingly calm. Either he would live through this, or he wouldn't, and after a year in Amarantha's bed it was hard to care which. Although he didn't want to leave Rhys…

"I don't intend to, no," Amarantha replied, with a merry laugh. Some of the others gathered around laughed, too. "I saw you standing in their blood. I felt you shift into the beast against my orders. Eris saw you just before their deaths, the only other person in the room. The proof is clear enough, I think."

"I demand recompense," Beron hissed, never looking away from Tamlin's eyes. "I demand his head."

Amarantha hesitated, her eye flickering between he and Beron, and then she smiled. Her bright red lips showed blinding white teeth, almost pointed, like fangs. "Fine."

"_What?_" That was Rhys, behind him, but Tamlin only raised his chin higher and tried not to look back. "Amarantha, you can't, he's a High Lord-"

"A High Lord who committed cold blooded murder in _my court_. Thrice. I admit that I'll… _miss _his warmth and his tears in my bed, but I'll still have _you_, won't I?"

Rhys didn't answer. Tamlin could hear him breathing, harsh and loud, behind him. Tamlin stared Amarantha down for once, feeling the scars on his face as he swallowed. She only gave him a slow, seductive smile. "Kneel, Tamlin."

He knelt. A box was put down in front of him, a large wooden rectangle. He saw someone, from the corner of his eye, hand Beron a finely-bladed axe. There was an angry hiss through the crowd, a cry as Lucien tried to move forward and was pushed back by guards, who held him by the arms. "Stop!"

_Feyre's arms were stretched at strange angles, and Tamlin, wrapped in his own land, with vines twisting his arms so tightly behind him he could feel them wrenching, watched Amarantha pull her arms off, like little girls sometimes pulled the arms off dolls. Feyre's scream had been endless. Lucien tried to lunge forward to save her, screaming wordlessly, but Amarantha's creatures held him back while the Attor laughed, while Rhys writhed in pain on the floor from disobeying her commands and screamed, how Rhys had _screamed _at the pain-_

"I will not have disorder in my court," Amarantha announced to everyone. "What schemes you get up to on your own land… that's your business. Under my rule, however, there will be no unsanctioned murder of High Fae in my court. I… regret that Tamlin is the first to test that rule. But a Queen must hold all her subjects equally responsible for their actions, even those she…" She slid her fingers up into his hair, twisting a bit around one finger. Tamlin felt, for the first time, real fear that she was serious. "Wants."

Jeering laughter, again. The sound of Lucien arguing with someone, shouting for him, begging for mercy. Rhysand's breathing, in and out, rapid and frightened. _Frightened for me. He doesn't want to lose me. _The smile growing on Eris's face, the way Lucien's eldest brother looked to Amarantha and back to his father again, the anticipation on his face.

Someone behind him pushed him forward, pressing the side of his face down on the block. The wood was rough against his skin but felt warm, almost, like a living thing. When he tried to fight it, they grabbed his arms and twisted them behind him. He thought of Lucien's brothers, forcing him onto his stomach on the ground, arms pulled back just like this, beating his head into the ground over and over again. He could see Rhysand at this angle. The self-control had not quite cracked but he thought behind that empty face…

Beron stepped up, weighing the axe in his hand, letting out a low-voiced laugh. "This will feel wonderful. I'll put your head on a pike in my court so no one ever forgets what happens to those who attack my family."

_We'll send their heads in a box to that fucking barbarian camp. Let that jumped-up Night Court group see what happens when you cross Spring._

_You can't do that, they haven't done anything wrong-_

_You going to stop me, you little git? You've always been weak in the knees for that half-breed High Lord brat._

"Put your own head on a pike," Tamlin snarled. He lifted his head and spat, hitting Beron right in the face. Beron only sneered and wiped his cheek with one hand. Eris stepped forward, lips slightly parted, watching them both with an expression that bordered on obscene.

"Amarantha," Rhysand whispered. "You can't do this."

"Are you going to stop me?" Amarantha asked, airily.

Beron raised the axe above his head.

_She tore Feyre in half right at the stomach, Amarantha screaming with fury and jealousy. Let the pieces of her drop, finally, with a sickening wet thud that Tamlin still heard in his dreams. While Tamlin's hoarse half-screamed sobbing rang through Rosehall, the house cracking and groaning around him, he twisted free finally but slipped in the blood and fell to his hands and knees. He could feel, dimly, the destruction his power wrought as the grand dining table, a wedding present from his mother to his father, simply broke in half. Giant clawmarks marked the side of the house. Trees simply blew outward like they had been picked up and tossed by a child. _

_Lucien cradled what was left of Feyre and cried, the both of them weeping for the woman they had loved. Tamlin wondered if he'd ever told Lucien he knew, in that moment, the truth of how Lucien felt about Feyre, and didn't care. That all his jealousy, his arrogant attempts to _claim_ her, had bled out of him with her death. _

_Amarantha had laughed at their pain and their mourning and said softly, "I'll send a letter when it's time" and walked away, her bare feet making footsteps from the blood._

_It hadn't been because she loved him. Feyre hadn't been murdered for anything half so noble as that. It had just been anger, a child's rage at being denied a toy. Just a toy._

There was only one thing Tamlin had not yet said to Rhys, what he had danced around, what had been between them every day since he'd been returned from Amarantha's tortures. He managed to get the other man to catch his eyes, to look directly at him. There was a terrible fear and despair in Rhys, but Tamlin's face was calm, his thoughts were clear.

_I love you, too, Rhys._

Rhysand's eyes widened. Just as the axe was raised as high as it would go, began its swing downwards he said, "Amarantha, wait," in a choked, strangled voice.

"Stop," Amarantha said quickly, and Beron growled, grunting as he swung the axe out to the side instead of down. Tamlin felt the whoosh of air as the axe blade buried itself in the wood of the box less than three inches from his head. Eris swallowed and stepped slightly forward. "Yes, Rhys darling?"

Rhys took in a breath, let it out through his nose. His eyes were moving back and forth, desperately, as he thought. "What can I give you that is worth Tamlin's life?"

Amarantha smiled, that blood-red, white-teeth smile. She held out both hands. "What do you have to offer? I already have _you_, body and soul."

Rhys looked back at Tamlin again. They met eyes, although Tamlin's were slightly out of focus, his forehead bloody from being bashed into the box, head spinning and dizzy.

"I can… I…"

"Don't," Tamlin whispered.

Rhysand tilted his head, the mask settling back on. "Can I speak to you in private, my Queen?"

Amarantha's smile widened. "Of course, Rhys darling." She drew him into the small antechamber just off to the side of the throne.

Beron leaned down, hissing spit into Tamlin's face. "Just wait until she comes back out."

Tamlin closed his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of his heart beating in his throat.

* * *

"So what is it?" Amarantha asked, one eyebrow raised. She had her arms crossed in front of her, just under her breasts, as she looked up at him. That smile seemed unable to leave her face.

Rhysand couldn't get past the feeling that he had just walked into a trap. He could see the trap, see the outlines of the net as it closed in. Knew he could just cut it and walk free, but to do that, he'd have to sacrifice, to watch Tamlin's head roll.

"Are you really willing to kill Tamlin, just to see what I'll do?" He asked, trying to make his voice its usual smooth emptiness. "Is _that_ your game?"

"Yes," Amarantha admitted easily, walking in a small circle behind him, trailing her fingers along his back. "Why don't you ever show your wings for me, Rhys darling?"

"You know why. Why don't you order me to?"

She laughed, softly, running a fingertip along the pointed shell of his left ear. Rhys closed his eyes, holding himself still, refusing to move.

"You know why," She said in a throaty voice. "And yes, Rhys, I will kill him today. I wanted him. I _ruined_ him for anyone else on earth. He was…" Rage, ugly rage, twisted her smile into a sneer. "He was so _arrogant_, wasn't he? Full of himself, and so sure he was above my bed, my_ love_. Now, he's learned some _humility_, wouldn't you say? Did you think I _care_ for him, Rhys? That he's worth the _love_ I tried so desperately to give him? No. Here's what _Tamlin_ is."

She leaned in closely. "Tamlin is a _fucking whore. _He will die nothing but my creature, who can't even _see_ a set of chains without getting hard, who sucks cock on command. I have taken that arrogant, privileged High Lord, the one who sneered at you, and at I, and at those like us-"

"I'm not_ like you_," Rhysand hissed, but the reputation of the Night Court made it a pointless protest and he knew it. He wondered how much of him _was _like her, even if only briefly, even if he'd told himself he had to do it to keep up appearances. The appearances came surprisingly easy, after all, didn't they?

"... I have taken all of Tamlin's high-handed notions and brought him down to hell. I have listened to him _beg to have me_, I take_ joy in _the way he writhes under you. And you love it, too, Rhys, don't even try to deny it_._ From that very first night I put you two together, you _loved that I made him love what you do. _Tamlin is _nothing _but a body for me to use." Rhys caught his breath, thinking of Tamlin's half-sobbed words in the bath after he'd been dumped in the doorway like so much bloodied trash.

His hands slowly curled into fists.

"Better question to ask, though… Is he just a body to _you?_" She ran her fingers through his hair, down the side of his neck, drawing one finger down his chest, drawing small circles through the cloth over his navel. He stared her down without a change in expression, even as his body tried to stir to life, too used to what her touch usually meant. She walked around behind him, those fingers still grazing.

He'd been right. It _had_ been a trap, all along. And he was watching it close in around him. He could not bear to do what it would take to set himself free.

"You know he's not," Rhys finally said, raggedly. "You _know _he's not."

"He is out there with his head on a block," Amarantha murmured, shivering with pleasure at the thought. "By the Mother, he's handsome just before he dies, isn't he? Beron will cleave that pretty head from his neck, and the blood will go just _everywhere-_"

"Stop it," Rhysand whispered, but she ignored him.

"I'm thinking of making Lucien lick it up. Smear some in that metal eye. Do you think he takes it out to wash it? I've always wondered. Beron will take the head, of course, back with he and Eris to his court. I'll have his body fed to the wild dogs that live in the deeper parts of the tunnels, with the dissidents. Make sure they get a good taste of blood."

"You_ have _to stop."

"You, of course, will have _nothing._ Nothing except some books, and clothing, and the knowledge that you could have saved him and you didn't. Just like with his mortal lover. Just like with your mother and sister-"

"_Stop._" She stilled her hand, finally, and he looked at her, stared into her cruel, awful eyes.

"Yes?" She whispered, stepping even closer. "Do you have some scintillating bit of conversation to offer?"

"I can give you five Illyrian war bands," Rhysand said, feeling something in him sink. "There's a grouping of them along the coast. You might get five hundred fighting warriors altogether, women and children, too. They're worth a thousand, two thousand, of your regular soldiers. I'll tell you where to send your… army to find them. What time to strike, when they'll be vulnerable."

"Are you saying I'll have to _abduct them_?" She said quietly, but a gleam had lit in her eyes. Rhysand was playing her game, and he hated himself for it. But he couldn't stop thinking about Tamlin's head on the block.

Tamlin last night, stretching against him, the way they had laughed together. The gentle smile on his face as he whispered _this way is so much better, Rhys._

_I love you, too._

"Yes. They don't like you. They won't fight willingly. You'll lose a lot of your own people to capture them."

"What good does it do me if I can't make them fight for me?" Amarantha turned as if she would leave and walk back out. Rhys grabbed her by one arm, and she turned slowly to look at him.

"You'll have to… bring them Under the Mountain." _I can't get out. I can't get out of this. _"They'll hate the dark, and the stale air, and not being able to fly." He closed his eyes, trying not to think, trying to keep Tamlin's face in his mind as he sold his mother's people down the river. "Separate the warriors from the women and children. Leave them down there for a week, maybe two. Let some of the warriors see their women, that they're not hurt... yet. Then tell the men their families depend on fighting for you. Threaten to take their wings to ensure they never go out again. They'll… you can break them down. I can give you the name of three bands that would fall in willingly for you, too."

She looked up at him, her eyes half-lidded, like they sometimes were after they'd bedded. As if this had all just been an immense pleasure for her. She took his chin in hers and pulled him in, pressing her lips softly to his. When all he did was stand there, she murmured, "Oh, you know how to do better than that, Rhys. Kiss me like you _mean it_."

He thought of Tamlin, leaned in, and pressed his mouth to her, pushing against her, thinking of the way Tamlin kissed, sort of hurried like he couldn't wait to get on to the next thing but torn over how much he just wanted this, too. When she flicked her tongue against his lips he opened his mouth obediently for her, uncommanded, pressing his own tongue against hers. She moaned, just a little bit, and Rhysand hated himself.

_But it's not Velaris. They are still safe. Whatever it takes to keep Valeris safe, to… keep Tamlin safe. Whatever it takes._

She pulled back, pressing her finger lightly to the end of his nose, and whispered, "If we don't find them where you say they are, I'll force you to stab him in the heart yourself."

Rhysand swallowed and nodded, slowly. "I understand, my lady."

"Good." Her hand had never left his stomach, and now it traveled down, tracing over his hips and his pelvis, curving slowly around him. Rhysand caught his breath. "You'll come to my bed tonight," She breathed out, with just the slightest squeeze of her hand. "And I had better see every ounce of that feeling you just gave me in that kiss. Do that, and maybe Tamlin gets a night to himself. Hm?"

Rhysand nodded, looking off to the side.

"I don't hear a yes."

"Yes."

"Yes…?"

He felt his jaw tighten, had to grit his teeth to force the words out. "Yes, my Queen. You won't have any complaints as to my performance tonight."

She laughed, softly, and simply turned, sashaying back out into the court. Rhysand followed her, his eyes on the floor. Everyone was where they had been, even Lucien was still fighting the armed escort holding him back. A hush fell as Amarantha held up a hand. The guards grabbed Tamlin by the hair and yanked his head up so he would look at her as she walked in.

Beron glared daggers between she and Rhys. He was smart enough to guess what had happened.

Rhysand gave Beron his most sensual, half-lidded serpent's smile. "There will be no execution today," He said with a purr in his voice.

"Well, that's not _quite_ true," Amarantha said, with an eyebrow raised. Rhysand felt himself turn to stare at her, opening his mouth to protest, as Eris stepped up and stabbed his own father right through the neck.

Beron's hands went up, grasping, scrabbling, as Eris, teeth gritted, pushed the dagger further in, until it went through and came out the other side. There was a strangled cry from Lucien across the room. Blood sprayed across his face, and all Eris did was wipe with one hand to get it out of his eyes. Beron tried to push his son away but Eris only pushed harder against him, grabbing him around the shoulders by one arm hold him still. "No," Eris growled, his eyes glowing bright with hate. "No, you old bastard, _no_."

The assembled High Lords, to a man, only silently watched. If Tamlin had looked up, he might have noticed that none of them had the fury in their eyes that they'd had when Tamlin was presented to the Queen. As though all of them had known this would happen, and did not care.

Rhysand watched the blood pour from the older man's neck as he tried frantically to heal himself even as Eris, his jaw set with grim determination, began to _saw._ Eventually, Beron collapsed onto the floor, twitching. Rhysand couldn't stop himself; he went into the man's dying mind and simply… pushed it a little further along. Beron's twitching went still.

The court watched in a sudden, horrified silence. Eris yanked his dagger back out of his father's neck and it clattered onto the floor, bits of blood and shards of bone spattering Tamlin across the face, who flinched. Lucien's struggles had frozen and he only stared, wide-eyed, at his father's corpse.

Eris gave Tamlin a calm smile, as though he weren't smearing blood across his own face when he wiped his mouth. He gave his father's corpse a surprisingly delicate kick. "Thanks for your help with my brothers, Tamlin. You were an invaluable tool. But being a tool has always been your specialty, hm?" Tamlin swallowed, hard, still staring at the body on the floor.

Then he looked to Amarantha. "The Court of Autumn drops its demand for recompense. We consider the blood repaid. Indeed, we're grateful for the aid provided by your whore." At that, Tamlin finally dropped his eyes back to the ground. Eris gave a smile that showed all his teeth. "_I_ am grateful, my Queen. Consider my troops to be yours."

Even as Eris spoke, something was shifting, changing in him. Eris's skin began to have a glow underneath it, the way the whole world seemed brighter, clearer, in those last few days of fall, when the air is cold and clear but the sun still shines warmly in the sky. Even his hair began to flash with light, like leaves turning in the breeze, catching a slightly yellowed sun. There was a faint smell, of apples and cinnamon and woodsmoke.

"Of course. We accept your offer. Court, may you give warm welcome to the new High Lord of Autumn, Eris Vanserra." Amarantha's smile had never stretched wider, had never been so joyful and pure and so certain of her own rightness.

Rhysand stared down at Beron's bloodied body, thinking of Tamlin's head on the block. Of the axe, raised high. Thought of what it would have looked like as it came down-

"Rhys darling," Amarantha drawled, not looking at him. She held out her hand and he stepped swiftly to kiss Jurian's eye. "Pick up your boy. I'll call you when I want you. We will hold no further court today. I have work to do. The servants have... cleaning."

"Yes, my lady," He whispered, hauling Tamlin onto his feet, who stared blankly around like he was trapped in some nightmare world with logic he couldn't understand. Lucien, his face white and framed by that deep auburn hair, stepped forward and this time the guards allowed it. He stumbled more than walked, not to Tamlin but to Eris. They stood, one on each side of Beron's body, looking at each other.

Eris smiled, with surprising gentleness. "Things are going to change in the Autumn Court, Luce." He said smoothly to his little brother, as though they were at a party and he weren't covered with blood. "Thing are_ finally_ going to change."

"Good," Lucien said sharply. Then he spat on his father's corpse and held out a hand. Eris shook it, and they both lingered, for just a moment, before they dropped their hands. "Does that mean I'm welcome at the Autumn Court?" Eris raised an eyebrow. "Not for long, I promise. Not to stay. Just... to see my mother, at least, 'Ris?"

Eris looked at him thoughtfully. "I wouldn't say _welcome_. But let's say… we're even. You lost your woman because of him and the rest of them. I have repaid that debt. Visit, if you want. I won't receive you at Court, but I won't actively tell anyone to do away with you. Just… watch for knives, littlest brother. You were always my favorite. I'd hate to see you die."

"You were always my favorite," Lucien replied, a ghost of a smile on his face. "I'd hate to be dead."

There was a long silence, and then Eris straightened the lapels on his shirt, turned, and walked away, leaving Beron's body where it had fallen.

Lucien turned and looked to Amarantha. He unintentionally nudged Beron's body with one boot as he bowed low at the waist to her, metal eye whirring as he slowly stood up straight again. "Your Majesty, I have one request."

Amarantha raised an eyebrow. "You have only to ask, little fox. Although if _I _could make a suggestion-"

Lucien managed not to react to her words. "I ask leave to visit my mother in the Autumn Court, now that my father is dead and my ban is lifted. I know I'm on house arrest-"

"Your leave is granted," Amarantha said smoothly, then took the last few steps over to him, lifting a hand to rest it, ever so gently, against his face. Lucien swallowed hard, cutting his eyes to the side.

Rhys had been playing a dangerous, murderous game for five straight decades. As he watched the disgust and fear roil in Lucien's face, the way he turned it just so to ensure that it looked like he was trying to look away even as he deliberately made sure she saw every moment, Rhys understood that it was all an act. Lucien, little fox, showing one face while holding another close to the vest. _What are you playing at?_

"I ask one thing in return," Amarantha said, with laughter in her voice, letting her fingers trail up into his hair, running through the auburn strands. She let her fingers catch in a tangle and then slowly, inexorably pulled until Lucien's head was forced back to look up at the ceiling. "You will return here when you have visited your mother, and you and I will have a _conversation,_ then_._ Privately."

"Yes, your Majesty," Lucien said to the ceiling. She let go of his hair then, all at once, and patted him on the chest. "I will return once I have seen my mother."

She was so short, to be a figure of such consummate, absolute terror. But still, when Amarantha let go of him, Lucien stumbled back, putting distance between them as quickly as he could. Lucien turned and looked at Tamlin. "Just wait for me."

"Lucien, I-" Tamlin began, then faltered, struggling to find the words.

"It's okay, Tam. I know you. Just wait. I'll see you, then, too." Then Lucien turned, his face cold, and walked out of the room. Rhysand noticed a strange, shabby-looking scabbard hanging off his belt, with a much nicer hilt sticking out of it. He frowned, wondering what _that_ was about. _Is anyone in this room not plotting something?_

Rhysand put an arm around Tamlin's shoulders, unable to stop himself, knowing that the gesture was possessive and not even remotely platonic. But his heart beat with a steady pulse of _not today, not today, not today, it didn't happen today. _"Let's get you cleaned up, Spring."

Tamlin turned his head to the side, just slightly, leaning his forehead against Rhys's cheek. "What did you give her? For me?"

"Don't ask," Rhys said wryly, and began to lead him away, the eyes of every single member of the court a physical presence on their backs. He tried to find a part of him that gave a damn, and failed. _Not today not today not today._ "Just remember that you are worth it. And feel free to thank me in a _very_ physical way."

It worked; Tamlin laughed, weakly, as they walked down the hall, and he did not ask again.

* * *

Lucien had nearly made it to the tunnels before he felt, rather than saw, Azriel disengage himself from a shadow and drift alongside. No one was here to notice him, but Lucien did not speak. He was still replaying the knife going into his father's throat, the look of determination on Eris's face.

Eris, as eldest, had been subjected to their father's cruelty the longest. There had been a distant, boiling fire in his eyes that Lucien recognized in himself. Something created by year after year after year of the anger, the abuse. By having things you loved tortured and killed in front of you just to 'toughen up'.

Jesminda hadn't been the first, after all. The first had been a goat he'd taken a shine to when he was only just out of short pants, barely past toddlerhood. He'd given it a name, and the little black goat had followed him everywhere, to his mother's delight. His father had forced him to slit the goat's throat himself and ordered the servants to cook it for dinner. Forced Lucien to clean his plate. He'd thrown it all back up and his father had laughed at him, while Eris glared daggers. That night he'd cried and Eris had come into his room and rubbed his back until he finally fell asleep. Eris had been the only one who cared.

After that there had been a horse… but Eris had lived through it much longer than he had. Eris had told him once, just after the goat, about a puppy his father had brought home, ostensibly as a gift. It had been part of a story about why no one should ever, ever ask their father for a puppy.

And when their father had realized that Eris cared about him, he'd turned them against each other, piece by piece. Forced them to hurt each other, until nothing was left but loathing.

Well, not quite nothing. Eris would let him come back to see his mother. That had to count as a victory against their father, didn't it?

Eris had not been insane with rage. There had been no madness in his eyes. Only that white-hot fury, flames that burned so hard they were nearly white, as their father died. Well. He could worry about how he felt absolutely no grief for this later. What Eris had done was solve a problem, and give him an opening to get into the Autumn Court lands without interference. Plus, an excuse to come back here in the end.

He waited until they had crossed over, when he felt his powers as Regent settling back in on his shoulders. Back in the Spring Court. Birdsong began, sweet and delightful. The chirping of baby birds in nests could be heard, if you listened long enough. Then, he stopped, in the middle of what seemed like a perfectly anonymous clearing in the woods, and turned to look at the shadowsinger at his side.

Wild strawberries grew along the path. A vine that hung heavy with beautiful purple blossoms twisted up around a tree, giving off a sweet scent. There were lilacs somewhere nearby, as well.

Azriel seemed horrifyingly out of place in all this greenery, a tattooed Illyrian warrior in his black battle armor, with a blade strapped to his back, a figure of terror basically everywhere but the Night Court. Except that this one, shorter than Lucien had expected, surprisingly delicate-looking, did not have a knife to his throat or demand his blood.

Instead, he gave Lucien a flat, cold smile. _He likes you, _Lucien's sword whispered.

"Sword's right," Azriel said with a shrug. "I do. So what next, Lucien Vanserra?"

Lucien took a deep breath, standing in the fresh air, listening to the songs around him, and the sword's song where it had driven itself deep within him. He could feel its contentment burbling along the line that stretched between them, the bond. "Are you still insisting on coming with, then?"

"That's what I'm supposed to do," Azriel said, quietly. "I'm with you until I can't be any longer. Thank you for taking me down there this time. I had a little time to walk around and get an idea of the layout. I've had maps drawn, but… it's always better to see things yourself. That will help me later."

_He will always be tied to the throne, in the end. He will always be forced to sing._

"Fine. Then let's go to Dawn Court and solve a riddle, then we'll head to the Autumn Court. Hope you like riding horses. This is going to take us a while."

He walked a while longer, before from behind him, he heard Azriel ask, "You _know_ I have wings, right?_"_


	24. Chapter 24

The plan went awry in the middle of the Dawn Court.

Lucien hadn't sought out the High Lord of Dawn, Thesan, this time. He and Azriel were careful, keeping to the ground, riding horses, glamoured within an inch of their lives to look simply like two lordlings out for a tour of the countryside. He had his glamour back up at Rosehall, pretending to prepare and pack for the journey to the Autumn Court. To see his mother.

That… that Lucien wondered about. She must know, by now. His death must have rung through their mating bond. She might be mad with grief, even after everything that man had done to her, to her sons, the way he had turned them into seven two-faced snakes out to kill and crush each other. He had still been her mate. She must… miss him.

More than she had ever missed her youngest son.

Azriel did not ride as easily or as naturally as Lucien had thought. Clearly, it'd been some time since he'd had to rely on riding horseback to get where he needed to go. But they couldn't risk a single Illyrian warrior being seen in the sky, the suspicions that would cause.

And Azriel had said he didn't want any word of where he was to get back to his own compatriots. That was something Lucien understood. The fewer people who knew, the better.

While the Dawn Court was speckled with villages, seemingly all a stone's throw from each other, they avoided them all like the plague might strike if they were seen. Which, to a certain extent, it might. Thesan was an enigma, in many ways, and Lucien simply did not trust him.

Thesan had been subjected to many of Amarantha's worst punishments recently, rumor having it that Amarantha had declared his Peregryns - including his lover - as less than fae and therefore unacceptable to love. Had all but declared Thesan as degenerate. Lucien imagined similar orders held for Illyrians. Thesan was too smart to get himself taken down for helping people he barely knew, and there was no telling whether he _would_ help them due to his rage at having his land so subjugated, or sell them back to her in return for leniency for the Peregryns.

They rode through a prairie, with grass that came up to the shoulders of their horses, speckled with flowers that opened and closed based on whether the dawn light touched them. There was a gentle mist all around, something that rolled and settled, moved seemingly with a mind and a will of its own. Azriel looked all around himself, with that same empty expression, but his hazel eyes were bright.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Those flowers are called morning glories," Lucien said cheerfully as they rode, as a gentle walking pace for now, trying to ease Azriel into it.

"I know that," Azriel said dryly. "We're not _completely ignorant _about the world in the Night Court, Lucien."

_Illyrians think they know everything._

"I can hear you," Azriel said easily. Lucien felt a sense of the sword intimating a very rude gesture through their minds. "Besides, how would you know Illyrians? Lucien said you were trapped in a cave for six thousand years."

_Time is not trapped in any one place. _Lucien thought of the Spirit of the Glass, who had said something similar, as the sword spoke. _Besides that, Illyrians are older than the fae. You don't want to admit it but you've got human blood in you._

"Older than… that can't be possible," Lucien said out loud. His horse huffed, stopping suddenly and taking in big nosefuls of air. Lucien gently kicked it with his heels and it started moving again

"Why not?" Azriel's tone remained flat, but he continued to take in the vast prairie, rustling in the slight breeze, every spray of seedlings at the top of each blade of grass lit as if from within with the golden light of dawn, with enough emotion in his eyes for Lucien to recognize it; wonder.

"I… don't know. I guess I just assumed the fae were the oldest things."

_Guessed wrong, didn't you?_ A teasing, surprisingly kind sense of laughter, in whatever way a sword could laugh. He had to admit; he did indeed seem to have built a mating bond with a blood-thirsty human sword. Not exactly the same, but… similar. Or some approximation of one. But it still felt… wrong. As though this weren't meant to happen, that it had been meant to be someone else, by fate…

Lucien didn't realize he was lost in thought until he heard Azriel gently clear his throat. When he turned to look, the shadowsinger tilted his head. "How far are we?" Darkness seemed to dance up Azriel's arms and legs and then back off again, coming and going in a constant stream of shadow. Lucien wondered if they spoke to him.

"Not far. We are going to see a nice old woman with a cabin in the woods."

Azriel let a shimmer of amusement show in a smile that was gone before Lucien had fully registered it. "No massive deserts in which epic battles raged? No dead warriors and slaughtered humans? Nothing… interesting?"

"Nope," Lucien replied cheerfully, as his horse picked its way around, grabbing mouthfuls of grass every time it thought Lucien wasn't looking. "Nothing fun at all. Just a nice old lady who eats unwitting human children that stray off the trail of breadcrumbs left by their parents."

_At sunrise, see the helping hand_

_That ushers young ones to ovens hot_

_Ask for the book of human dreams_

_I am the tale of forgotten gods_

"So where's the cottage? This… grass… goes on forever. And the light is so… " Azriel squinted up at the constantly-rising sun. "Bright. And… cheerful."

"It doesn't go on forever. I used to ride here, when I was young. For a while, Autumn and Dawn got on well, and I used to spend whole summers just… riding, with the High Lord's family. Hunting, I guess, although I was never any good at it really until I met Tamlin."

"Hm," was all Azriel said. He shifted in his saddle, still clearly uneasy and uncomfortable with spending so much time on horseback rather than up in the sky.

"We need about another day, and we'll hit the edge of it. It'll drop into clearings, small meadows, some trees. Then we'll see her house. At least _this_ one I won't have to sleep with," He muttered to himself, and heard Azriel snort in response.

_You hope. _

Lucien rolled his eyes at the sword's commentary, nudging his horse to move a little more quickly, trotting through the high grass. He could hear small animals racing away as they came close, the quiet crashing noise that accompanied chipmunks and prairie dogs and other tiny things running and running to escape.

He had glamoured Azriel's wings away. But the tiny animals didn't understand glamour. Instead, they saw those leathery, batlike wings, and saw some kind of terrifyingly large bird of prey.

A predator, Lucien thought. Azriel sat, and moved, like a predator. Something that could devour and kill, and only took its time deciding on the next target. And yet… he could be trusted. And he'd entrusted Lucien with his own visions.

He heard Azriel awkwardly try to urge his own horse to catch up, having trouble getting around the gentle click to the roof of the mouth that all the horses were trained on. He kicked a little too hard and his horse went galloping away. After a moment, Lucien simply urged on faster and caught up with him, watching Azriel hold onto the reins (and the pommel) with a mix of panic and elation.

"Do you want to see how_ I _fly?" Lucien asked, and kicked his horse one more time. Its strides lengthened to top speed and Lucien leaned over its mane, feeling a wild smile on his face, as the grass flew past, the wind whipping around his sun-bleached hair.

Behind him, he heard Azriel say something, and then he saw the shadowsinger riding just as fast, still panicked, but with an honest-to-Mother expression of joy on his face warring with his nervousness. As if, for just one second, he'd forgotten to be frightening. The shadows soared behind him, a pair of phantom wings where his own were glamoured to be gone.

* * *

Cassian stalked the halls of the Hewn City, trying to ignore the nervous worry gnawing at his stomach. Azriel had not returned, when he'd sworn he would only be gone for a little while. He could still be out there with Lucien, Cassian supposed, but… something didn't feel right.

He'd come down here, to see if anyone knew anything. It was safe enough; close enough to Valeris. Keir, the lesser generals and commanders… no one said anything. And Cassian knew, had known from the moment Azriel had mentioned leaving, that he couldn't say a word. He just had to hope he'd overhear something.

"General," Someone said behind him and Cassian turned to see one of the lesser commanders, eyes wide.

"Yes?" He said, letting the annoyance show in his voice. Not that Cassian had ever had much control over that.

"We have a… situation. On the western coast."

Cassian crossed his arms in front of him, frowning. His Siphons flickered, faintly, as he felt worry rise. "What kind of a situation?"

The commander swallowed. "Amarantha."

_No. It wasn't supposed to happen here. No. _

"What is she doing here? We sent her the four regiments she asked for-" _Should have sent eight, we could have had Rhys back for two weeks, could have seen him, he would've hated us for it but Cauldron, just to see his face again- _"Why would she come? We have a deal. The North Court is to remain unmolested." He winced, realizing too late how terrible his wording was. "We don't _get raids, _commander. We don't _have_ dissidents in Amarantha's tunnels. Your lord made sure of it-"

"I know that, General Cassian. But… that doesn't… we are still being raided. Illyrian war camps have been attacked along the western coast. We've had word from the K'rai, Pel, Rend, and Vessa camps, and I'm sure that's not all of them. They're not going to be able to fight her off. Amarantha's forces are… overwhelming. Our scouts report soldiers that belong to other Courts-"

Cas was already on the move, not-quite-running towards the entrance. The commander followed just behind him. He heard shouts, now, as the news had started to spread. "We need to pull together our own soldiers. We'll have to defend-"

"I'm not sure we'll get there in time, general, but-"

"Fuck that. _Try._" Cassian caught Keir on his way outside, grabbing him by the arm. The Steward of the Night Court looked as shaken as he felt. "I'm heading for the camps. Send reinforcements."

Keir only nodded. Cassian went to leave and Keir grabbed him by the arm, looking Cassian right in the eyes. "Fly fast," He said softly. "Use the currents over the Tylon Pass, try the K'rai camp. That's the last place our scouts saw anyone alive."

Cassian nodded and turned, making his way out of the Night Court, and took to the skies.

* * *

They found the cabin exactly where Lucien had remembered it. It was something out of a human storybook; a small, one-room wood cabin with a thatched hay roof, a few windows set with oiled paper rather than glass. A thin line of smoke curled up from the brick chimney. There was a small, neatly-kept path that went right up to the front door.

Azriel's eyes were narrowed, shadows twisting up his arms and along his neck, down his ear. "I don't like this."

"Azriel, this is the friendliest-looking place I've ever been."

Azriel turned those empty hazel eyes on him. "And that's why I don't like it."

_I agree with the Illyrian._

"Of course you do," Lucien muttered. He dismounted, tying his horse's reins to a small post with a circle at the top. After a hesitation, Azriel did the same. Lucien stepped slowly up to the front door and knocked, one hand still on his sword. Azriel stood back by the horses, looking around, a slight frown on his face. Lucien might have said he looked concerned, but Azriel's expressions only occasionally seemed to relate to an actual feeling he was having. Or if they did, it was seconds too late. As though he had to remind himself how faces worked.

There was no answer, but after a moment he realized the door was ajar, and pushed it slowly open. Her cabin was just as he remembered from his youth; a well-loved mess. There was a small bed in the corner, surrounded by boxes and boxes of dried herbs for potion making. More herbs hung in bundles by the fireplace and through the whole ceiling. The fireplace, with a built-in stone oven just above it, was crackling merrily. He could see… something roasting in the stone oven. A dresser, no doubt with her clothes. A spinning wheel and baskets full of yarn, a table with breakfast for one laid out on it, a strange meat that Lucien did not want to examine too closely-

"Something's wrong." Lucien took a step further into the cabin. "No one is here. Maybe she just went for water…" He could see exactly what he needed, sitting on the table, as though she'd laid it out for him. The book of human dreams.

It was a book of faerie tales.

Lucien walked quickly over to it, picking it up. A book of faerie tales if you were a human child. A book of history, if you were fae. And a book with a spell in it that would bring the other things he needed together.

The door slammed shut behind him, just as he heard Azriel's voice call out.

Lucien spun around, book tucked under one arm. He pulled on the door, but it did not budge. "Shit. Shit. Azriel!"

He went over to one of the oiled-paper windows, tearing it down from the inside, peering out. "Azriel! I have the… oh no."

Azriel was standing in a defensive crouch, wings tight against his back, with a blade in each hand. His gauntlet stones glowed brightly.

Surrounding him were more than two dozen soldiers, who had seemingly melted right out of the trees.

* * *

Cassian flew.

He'd seen signs of the raids early on, a few small camps that were nothing but corpses and burned-down houses by the time he made it to them. He barely dared to stop, only checking for survivors.

He found none.

But he wasn't finding many bodies, either. Plenty of Amarantha's soldiers, which he realized were of every possible variation of lesser fae, from every court in Prythian. _So that's what she wanted all those soldiers for…_ Except the Night Court. She'd kept the Night Court soldiers back for this, Cassian thought, as his experienced eyes scanned the bodies. Only a few Illyrians. Almost entirely everything else. It almost looked like the Illyrians must have slaughtered them and moved on, but… if his people had won, then… where were they?

No. Cassian had been alive a long time, and he knew loss when he saw it.

_So where were they?_

He took flight again, remembering Keir's words, the fear in the steward's eyes. His heart beat dully in his chest as he angled himself to catch the currents of the Tylon Pass.

* * *

"No no no no no, how do they know, no one knows we're here…"

_They weren't here for you, _the sword whispered.

"Hey!" Lucien called. No one reacted - not even Azriel. He tried a few more times, even tried out a new insult he'd taken a shine to in a tavern back in the village at the Spring Court, but still nothing. Finally it dawned on him. "The house is spelled. They can't see me at all, can they? Or hear me?"

_Neither can Azriel. I think we disappeared to him when we walked in the door._

Lucien felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled around to see… her. The wise old woman who cooked children in ovens if they got lost in the wood. There was a bit of floor in the corner currently sticking up. She must have been in the cellar below when he had entered. She was a crone, with wild white hair but a friendly, charming smile. Her teeth were oddly yellow and crooked, the only unsettling part of the picture of the happy grandmother. She wasn't smiling now. Instead, she put a single finger to her lips and slowly shook her head.

"Why are they here?" Lucien hissed in a whisper.

The old woman squinted at him, then walked over to her table, taking out a pencil and sheet of paper from a set of drawers nearby. On it, she scrawled, _Raid. Dissidents. Keep quiet and I can hide us. _A pause. _Dearie._

Shit.

This wasn't even a real attack on them, just something random. They'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. These were Amarantha's men. One of her raids, to round up new dissidents to take down into the tunnels. Her creatures, many like the Attor, hissed and spat at Azriel.

Azriel never moved, except to shift as one moved closer, back slowly away from another. There was a hint of a blue edge to his daggers, while his siphons glowed brightly. Lucien had never seen Illyrians fight. But he knew what those Siphons were for.

The shadows climbed Azriel's legs, hovered around his wings, as though they would protect him from harm.

It seems that Amarantha's men also knew what it meant to take on an Illyrian. When they they moved to attack, they did so all at once.

Azriel flowed.

He was shadow, moving as the sun moved, covering everything. The Siphons and his eyes glowed with the same stark unsettling brightness as he took Amarantha's creatures down, one by one.

He'd carved a circle of space for himself. Outside the circle, bodies. Within it, only himself, muscles that knew this dance the way others in Prythian knew sex. This was what he was made to do. His mind was still, thoughtless even as it reacted with grace, instincts and training filling in while his mind reached out.

The odds weren't great, and Lucien had disappeared when he'd gone into that cabin. It had been a trap. Azriel should have figured it out, but he hadn't, and it had been a trap in the end.

Except that he felt sure he could hear Lucien's sword, faintly, trying to reach him somewhere nearby.

Claws raked at him and he simply bent himself backwards, dodging them easily, dropping into a crouch to slash with the Siphons at its legs. It howled and tried to move backwards, but failed and fell. He plunged a blue dagger into its chest to finish the job, already up and moving towards the neck. Sliced open, it burbled black blood and was still.

And yet they came.

Azriel had seen this before. When he had seen this happen, though, it had been after the Autumn Court, on their way back. He wasn't ready. He'd thought he would be safe. _Mistake, mistake, mistake. _He'd said it to Lucien himself - nothing about time was certain.

He knew this was a losing battle. He fought it, anyway.

And even though he'd dreamed it a dozen times, he still let out a cry of surprise and pain when the crossbow bolt went through his left wing, stumbled onto one knee, pushed himself right back up. Then he found another throat to slash.

This might have been set in stone, but he could still change the number of corpses on the ground.

* * *

The Tylon Pass currents led him to the next camp, the K'rai camp, the place Keir had said there might still be survivors. He set down, staring around. More dead Illyrians here than at the last one. Still outnumbered by dead everything else, at least ten to one. Cassian allowed himself one faint, savage smile, feeling proud, truly proud, to be Illyrian.

He stumbled forward as a crossbow bolt caught him in the right shoulder, looking down as the sharp end came out his chest. An oily slickness, something darker than blood, coated the end. "Oh, for the Mother's sake." He pulled his wings in tight, turning slowly around, feeling his Siphons flare to life, into a sword and shield. "Whatever you put on that, it wasn't faebane, so it sure as fuck won't do what you're hoping." He waited, shifting from foot to foot. The only sound was the crackling of the fire, the groaning of one of Amarantha's soldiers that had somehow survived.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Cassian sing-songed into the ring of burning houses and destroyed tents. "Honestly, what kind of coward shoots crossbows from the shadows?"

Laughter rang out around him. A woman's laughter. Laughter he had heard only once, through his connection with Rhys's mind, in the last few moments when Rhys was trying to tell them what was happening, just before the scream.

Cassian's sword and shield faltered, before he brought them back up again, eyes wide. "... No."

Before Amarantha stepped out from behind the flames of a burning house, her hair a halo of red around her shining happy face.


	25. Chapter 25

Amarantha smiled at him, her lips a savage red, flashing white teeth. Her armor was pitch-black with lines of glowing red where the plates fit together, fitted to her body, showing the voluptuous curves alongside a sense of immense deadliness. She dropped the crossbow entirely, unsheathing twin blades instead, each serrated and slightly curved at the end, like a set of wickedly sharp fangs. "Just checking the work of my new army, making sure they did as told. Honestly, it's like these tens of thousands of fae have just been _waiting _for someone like me to give them a purpose again. And so I have. You know, the second Illyrian band we invaded simply agreed to help us right away?"

"Did they?" Cassian snarled. He'd have to figure out which band it was and make sure they regretted that choice.

"They did," Amarantha said sweetly. "And so we let them go. They sent their best men with us, darling bat. We left their elders, their women and children, alone."

Cassian hated to admit it, but he could see the reasoning in that, why they'd done what they did. He'd still have to make sure it never happened again. He backed away from her as she moved closer, keeping Siphon-blades ready. The burning camp was a circle of flame around them, smoke that made him cough, that smelled not just of pitch and thatch and wood but also a sick-sweet smell he recognized all too well as burning bodies.

"Also," Amarantha continued, "getting some fresh air. I am _loving _the air up here in the north. Maybe I'll build a second court here... Wait. Are you important?" She asked, tilting her head at him. Then she struck, testing with one blade, which he easily countered.

Another try. Another counter. He gritted his teeth at the madness in her eyes, now that she was so close to him. The twist of insanity, some ancient pain that had eaten her alive a long time ago, until the lunacy itself was all that was left. He wondered if the young Spring lord, then just a younger son, had seen this in her eyes when she had first propositioned him, if that was why he'd said no.

"I don't know. Depends on who you are." Their blades slammed together. Then again. She moved back, slowly, toying with him. He growled as they matched blades again, his muscles rippling at the strength in her swing. "What are you doing here? You made a deal with my lord-"

"Oh, did I? How strange, I must have broken it," She purred. She wore a thin band of entwined gold, a crown that sat lightly on her head, with a single blood-red ruby the size of her own fist that hug just over the center of her forehead. Cassian thought of his own red Siphons and felt vaguely ill, that anything on him should look so much like anything on her.

She attacked him again, this time in a wild flurry with both blades that he just barely kept up with. She kept coming, kept pushing him, as she snarled. "Do you _know-" CLANG "_how many of my ideas have _failed-" CRASH _"with him? He's so bloody _strong." _A shrieking screech as blade was forced to slide against blade. _"_Torture? Nothing. _Sex?_ He's better at it than he's ever been, _you're welcome by the way, _and never tells me a thing." They hit each other with blades crossed this time, all four meeting at an angle in the middle. Cassian felt himself forced back a couple of steps, the ache in his chest from the crossbow bolt rising as his heart rate rose in battle. Amarantha slid the swords away and backed up again. "I can't _force_ him to talk, like I can with my sweet Tamlin. I just wish Tamlin had anything worth taking any longer."

"My condolences," Cassian snapped. Her ranting was unsettling, her voice a little too high-pitched, her eyes too wide and white-rimmed. By the Cauldron, was _this_ what Rhys had to feign desire for in bed? He tried a direct attack and she countered, easily, hardly breaking a sweat.

_CRASH. _Blades hit again. Cassian had to throw up a Siphon-shield to hold off a sword, and the momentum off it knocked him back, stumbling a few feet before he took his fighting stance again. "It took me _five decades_ to correctly guess how I could break the cruel, merciless High Lord of Night. Fifty years to fuck him up so badly he'd give me what I wanted. Fifty. Years. But I figured it out!" Her smile, from behind the blades she held crossed in front of her, was full of triumph. "And now I'm going to get _everything I want._" Those eyes suddenly focused on his, and the intensity of them threatened to drive him mad, too. "Have you ever met him, in person? Rhys? Your lord?"

"Have I-... no. I'm just… I just take orders. I'm a lesser general of the fifth division. The Night Court isn't exactly… welcoming." This wasn't working. He was tiring too quickly, and she was keeping up with every strike. She was a legendary general, Hybern's greatest warrior. He'd just thought all this time playacting at royalty would have cost her edge in battle He'd been wrong.

Cassian tried to keep his eyes on her and still look all around him for an exit plan. Each time he tried, though, she attacked again, keeping his eyes on her, his body focused on defense. He couldn't take off like this, he couldn't get the purchase, she kept him constantly moving. Strike. Parry. Strike again.

Strike- and he got her, slicing across her arm. She pulled it back with a hiss, but the lunatic good humor never left her face. She slashed back at him with both blades, a wild joy in her face that was more frightening that swords ever could be. He managed to back away, evade the hits, but she didn't stop trying.

"You look familiar," She said softly, as though she knew what he was thinking, taking a few steps back herself. Both of them were breathing hard by now. Then she let out a peal of laughter, a sound of absolute and consummate beauty twisted by long centuries of hatred. "All you Illyrians look alike to me, though. Do you do that on purpose?" She flickered a smile, and it was seductive, wicked, and made his stomach sink somewhere near his knees. "Hey, general, is it true what they say about Illyrian wingspans?"

He moved forward as if to attack, but his sword and shield faltered. He looked down, seeing his Siphons flickering wildly, before they came back.

"Oooh, look at that," Amarantha purred. "How embarrassing. Don't worry, general. I'm sure that happens to every male sooner or later."

His chest ached where the crossbow bolt had gone through. It had somehow hit in the exact space between two of the armored scales, a space of less than half an inch of vulnerability. She'd known exactly how to aim for him. She brought her blades up and he struggled, this time, to parry effectively. She caught his blades in hers, twisted hard, and both his small swords went clattering away. He scrambled back, keeping to his feet, though only just.

"You agreed to leave us alone," He said quietly, buying time as he backed further away. The heat of the houses afire all around them was making him sweat, made the world seem to wave, slightly, as though it were no longer real. If he could just buy some more time, Keir was supposed to be rallying the troops-

_Keir isn't coming, _he realized, and cursed himself for his stupidity. Of course not. _Keir_ had told him to take this pass, to come this way. _Keir_ had given him the name of this camp as the first place to stop, because he'd already known where she would be.

Keir had sold them out.

He went into a low defensive crouch, backing away from her, towards another corpse nearby. He just needed time to draw a regular sword…

* * *

"What's an Illyrian doing in the Dawn Court?" Azriel heard one of them hiss to another.

"Spying for the Night Court, no doubt," The other one replied. Azriel slit the throat of a half-armored lesser fae who ran at him, turned in a motion as smooth as dance, and plunged his daggers into another. Truth-Teller lay dormant at his back, forgotten, as he poured all his energy into the Siphon-blades he wielded. He had no time to unsheathe his true blade. They were on him, never stopping, never slowing, they were _on him-_

Azriel spun, blades out, taking three out at once. The odds hadn't been good, but Azriel had been alive a long time, and he trafficked in beating the odds.

Azriel smiled. It was a bright, cheerfully sunny smile, and on him it looked like the death-grin on a long-bleached skull. "Do you _know _how long it's been since I've had the chance to work like this?"

The remaining raiding party backed away from him, slowly, biding their time. Beyond them, the empty cabin beckoned. Lucien had gone in and not come back out. Whatever he was doing, Azriel had thrown himself in with him, and he intended to live long enough to see the book that Lucien's riddle talked about.

Azriel took in a deep breath, smelling the morning glories, the dawn around him lighting the whole world like a song, a bright and beautiful day. Underneath it all, the unmistakable, familiar scent of someone else bleeding.

Azriel, smiling still, moved forward to slaughter them all.

* * *

"I thought you stayed Under the Mountain," Cassian hissed.

"I don't have to," Amarantha murmured, as they continued to circle each other, warily. She was herding him, he realized, keeping him away from the corpses with weapons he could reach. Each moment they did this dance was one moment more the ache in his chest grew worse and worse where the crossbow bolt had gone in. The pain was throbbing with his heart as it pushed the poison through his blood, as whatever she'd coated it with spread. It wasn't faebane, but… his Siphons had gone dormant.

"I've been in _so many _battles," Amarantha said, voice breathy, tilting her head absurdly to the side, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "So many. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Cassian said gruffly, a little unwillingly. She stepped closer and he backed up, nearly tripping over a dead lesser fae, but caught himself.

"I got so tired of fighting." She pouted, just slightly. "It makes me so _bored_. So now…"

A crossbow bolt came from somewhere behind him, and Cassian gasped as it went through his left wing and out the other side, burying itself in a nearby tree. At almost the same moment, a different one hit the right wing.

"Now," Amarantha said brightly, "I cheat."

Even as he tried to pull his wings further in, to defend against it, a third bounced off the back of his armor along his shoulder blade, the momentum sending him stumbling forward a step. A fourth, a fifth, shredding themselves through his wings. A sixth he managed to evade by spinning to the side. A seventh found his knee, buckling it beneath him, and he fell forward onto the ground.

Cassian raised his head, trying to scramble back up to fight again even as his knee shrieked in protest, and found one of the jagged, curved swords was held to his throat. He swallowed and tried to sit back a little, the sword following him, just barely grazing his skin.

He raised his hazel eyes to meet her gaze.

"By the Mother," Amarantha whispered an appreciative smile on her face. "You're not exactly _pretty,_ not like Rhys. But you… Look at the_ hate_ in you. I'll bet you're a firebrand in bed."

Cassian spat at her.

She laughed, again, not even bothering to wipe it away, and the sound bounced around, echoing around the bodies and the burning homes. "That's fine. I don't fuck animals, anyway."

"Where are the other Il-Iluh-Illyrians?" His voice was beginning to slur. He couldn't seem to think quickly enough, his muscles not quite answering his mind. Soldiers stepped up, soldiers he hadn't seen before because he'd been too… distracted. Damn it. _She'd distracted him while they got into position. Stupid. He'd been too thrown off by seeing her in person, hadn't paid attention the way he should have_. "Where are my people?"

He understood her taunting, her hesitation to begin the fight, now. All those strikes and parries, the constant dance she'd led him on. _All of that was just buying time to let the poison spread. Stupid stupid stupid. _He was having trouble swallowing. The throb of his heartbeat was becoming an agony. He tried to stand, only to feel his injured knee simply give out, forcing him back down. One of those wicked serrated edges scraped along his neck, drawing blood. He stilled himself, slowly raising his bare hands into the air.

"Safe," Amarantha whispered. "Most of them. What's your name?"

Cassian stayed silent. She pressed the edge just a bit further, but still, Cassian said nothing. He cut his eyes away, finally, seeing more blades on every side. Frankly, it was a little flattering that they believed they needed so many.

Everything hurt, pain beat through his body with the pulse of the poison. His wings, his chest, his back… He could barely keep his hands up. He wanted to ask her about Rhys, how he was, what she'd done to him over the past five decades. Nuala and Cerridwen said so much, but he knew there was much more that Rhys made them swear not to tell. Still… he shouldn't give away that he knew him personally. Not when he knew something important, now - that she had no idea who he was.

"Fair enough," Amarantha said thoughtfully. "Nobody else wanted to tell me theirs, either. Well, give it time." She looked to the soldiers behind him. "Take that armor off. Now. Keep it. I want it on display."

Cassian kept his hands up as lesser fae swarmed, using the Siphons to bring in his armor, taking the gauntlets away. Taking the Siphons right off of him, leaving him in only the thin shirt and pants he usually wore underneath. One of them yanked the crossbow bolt straight out of his chest and he let out a low-pitched scream of pain and rage, even as they kept him from falling over, even as blood began to spill.

"No no no," Amarantha soothed. "No, my lamb. None of that." She leaned over, pressing her hand over the blood burbling from the wound, and he felt a sudden spike of heat, a pain even worse than the bolt had been, his face white with it, teeth ground down against it. The wound closed… unhealed on the inside, the poison continued to spread. But at least the bleeding stopped.

His mind was full of fog and he could feel his heartbeat slowing. "Wh… what was on those crossbow bolts?" He asked, looking back up at her, swaying back and forth. She wavered in the heat. In and out of black. "Just… you know… for edu- ed-... learning reasons. Not related... an'thing. Just… that's… thass not faebane, some… thing elsssse..."

Amarantha laughed. "Oh, you're as funny as your lord, little drugged one. No, it's not faebane. You should feel _flattered_, Illyrian. This particular poison has been in development for fifty years. And I made it..." She leaned down, touching the end of his nose to emphasize each word as she spoke it. "Just… for… you. Or, well, someone like you. All you need to have to be a good tool is someone you love. And you won't remember a thing." She looked up, her eyes fixed just behind him. "Take him out. Let's finish up the remaining camps and send word to Keir. We're done here. Tell him he'll find his reward at the rocky island just outside the Silver Straight. Can't have allies if I don't pay handsomely, hm? I better get back home before my darling boys realize I'm gone and start to _miss me._"

The hilt of a sword smashed down onto his head and Cassian collapsed backwards into the grass. Four of the lesser fae picked him up, one by each limb, and carried him away. Cassian stared up at the black, starless sky until he passed out completely.

_Azriel, where are you?_


	26. Chapter 26

When all of them were dead, finally and irrevocably dead, Azriel cleaned his blades off on the grass, taking his time. He had counted - thirty-seven dead, with one escaped into the woods. Azriel bared his teeth in a feral smile after him. Good. One to take back the message.

And all he had to speak of was a few cuts here and there. A raiding party expecting nothing more than old women in the woods simply wasn't prepared for Illyrian steel.

Sheathing his daggers, he looked at the dead horses with some regret, then headed for the closed cabin door. He knocked, politely. Lucien opened the door, staring at him with one wide, half-frightened eye. His metal eye whirred, more loudly than usual.

"Ah, so you saw all of that," Azriel said, walking past him. There was blood spattered across his face and armor, which he ignored. Blood of every color and consistency. The old crone was inside, and she looked at him with no fear at all, instead a grandmotherly delight. Something was roasting in her oven now, something delicious. He took a breath. Ham, maybe?

_Just a nice old woman who cooks children who stray off the path._

Azriel's stomach turned and he swallowed thickly, looking to Lucien. The auburn-haired man continued to simply stare at him. He had a picnic basket with a bright red-and-white gingham towel laid over the top in one hand.

"Did you get what we came for?" he asked, mildly, as though he'd just been outside admiring the flowers rather than racking up a body count.

"I… yes," Lucien said hoarsely, patting the picnic basket, seeming to jump back into being normal. "Azriel, what you just did… How much would it cost to have you be my bodyguard for the rest of my life?"

"More than you can afford," Azriel answered smoothly. He bowed to the old crone. "For one thing, you'd have to ask Rhys. And you really can't afford to ask Rhys. Thank you for keeping him safe," He said with a gentleman's politeness to the old woman of the cabin.

"Yes, well, knew you were coming, dearie," The old woman answered, a sparkle in her eyes, grabbing him by one bloody hand in both of hers, patting it gently. "_This_ lovely young man kept me company while we watched your very amusing fight. I'm happy to take care of the cleanup myself, don't you worry m'love, my cellar has been low for so long. It'll be good to get something new in them barrels, get 'em good and salted for winter. Plus, it'll thumb our nose at that false queen, now won't it?"

She leaned over, now patting the top of the picnic basket hanging on Lucien's arms. "I've placed the book just in here, luv, plus loaded this sweet young man down with cookies. Freshly-baked shortbreads, you know. There are strawberries, too, in the basket, can't have shortbread without strawberries, now can you?"

Lucien only shook his head slowly, clearly still overwhelmed. Azriel heard Lucien's strange sword whisper, _maybe I should have sung for the Illyrian instead. Someone who moves like that would definitely be a good choice for me. And you, too, Lucien. You could match worse. Ask if he has a sister._

Lucien flushed, with anger more than anything else, and hissed something unflattering in the direction of his sword. "Sorry," Azriel said mildly, "I don't want you. Either of you. And no, I don't." The woman gave them a baffled expression and Azriel smiled thinly. "Sorry. I meant that to… him. Thank you for the food and for the book, madam."

"You're quite welcome, dearies. This nice young man will make a good work of that book, I'm sure of it. I've been waiting for him to come and take it for a very, very long time. I was so happy when the path told me you were on your way here…" She looked up, bustling over to the oven, pulling out a glistening, oddly shaped pinkish roast. "Would you like to stay for breakfast?"

Lucien choked out "Please no," at the same time Azriel said "No thank you," and they both all but ran for the door.

Once they had made it outside, Lucien stared at the pile of corpses for a long, long time. Then he sighed and turned to Azriel. "Well, I'm going to owe someone money for those horses. I'll get us back to the Spring Court. It might take a while to go without Amarantha feeling it, but I can do it if I'm careful. Are you coming with?"

Azriel frowned, thoughtfully. "I will." He could still feel the shield of Velaris, intact. Everyone was fine. But something was very, very wrong.

* * *

Cassian groaned, shifting around, getting his hands under him and pushing himself up. It was dark, everything was black. Slowly, his eyes began to adjust and he squinted, trying to see where he was.

A prison cell, he thought. A barred door in front of him, a bare hint of yellowish flickering light from some lantern far down the hall. The cell was barely big enough to stand, but he could, if he wanted to. The top of his head just about scraped the ceiling when he did. He couldn't even lie down all the way flat, he'd have to curl his legs up a little. His wings scraped the floor and ceiling simultaneously and he shuddered, wondering how dirty they'd get in here. He couldn't spread them out, the cell wasn't big enough.

All he had on now were his thin under-his-armor pants. He reached up to feel, and the crossbow bolt wound was… gone. Healed, inside as well as out. He tried to step forward, to look out the barred door, and felt something catch his neck and pull him back just before he could get a good look at the hallway. His hands slowly went up to feel at the silver cuff, about the width of his own hand, that fit so tightly against his neck he couldn't even get a finger between the silver and his skin. A chain ran from it, attached to the wall.

He no longer felt the throb of the poison, but could still feel his magic simply… draining away, the absolute weakness of a body that could do no more than exist, had no magic, no power.

A bit of light caught on his wrists and he saw more silver cuffs fastened there, heavily engraved and set with small red stones, tiny garnets. They glowed, with a brightness that ebbed and flowed with the feeling of power draining from him into them. If he thought about it, he could feel them on his ankles. Had the feeling of garnets in the one on his neck, too.

From somewhere impossibly far away and horrifyingly near, he heard the sound of someone screaming, gibbering, begging for mercy. The screaming seemed to go on and on, echoing, bouncing around each and every cell. Making sure any prisoners held here could hear every single syllable of the horror being inflicted below.

Cassian slowly sat back down, staring at the silver cuffs around his ankles, trying to think.

_I'm Under the Mountain._

* * *

Azriel had seen everything that had happened today, in dreams. He'd seen those soldiers barreling out from hiding places in his visions. He'd seen himself take them on, take nearly all of them out, and be finally taken down. Except… today, he hadn't been taken down. He'd won.

In his vision it had happened later, but everything had been the same, down to the little details of their armor and weapons, the things they had said…

So why had it happened now? And why had he escaped? Wasn't he supposed to be Amarantha's prisoner by now? He'd been so sure about the riddle…

_Night keeps safe the dreamer who sings_

_I fear no war and move mountains in the dark_

_Serve a false queen with severed strings_

_Silver catch and light the spark_

As Lucien winnowed them away, Azriel felt worry began to creep into the cold stone heart. Why hadn't this ended the same as his vision? The riddle for the Night Court had been clear. One of them would have to go down Under the Mountain.

One of them would have to be caught, and not come back out.

Mor's voice rang in his mind, thin and stretched by the distance, "_Azriel, where are you? Cas is gone. There were raids, he went to help and he hasn't come back. Where are you?_"

Then he knew. Azriel grabbed Lucien by the shoulders as they stepped into Rosehall. "I have to find one of my spies here, Lucien."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that-"

"Stop. Now's not the time. I need to get back home. I was wrong - I was wrong, I don't know how I got it so wrong..."

"Fine, yes, okay." Lucien frowned, looking with concern down at Azriel. "What's going on?"

Azriel slowly shook his head, then looked up at the auburn-haired Regent of the Spring Court. There was something bleak, in his expression. "Lucien, the riddle isn't about _me_. It's about-"

* * *

"_Cassian__!_"

The frantic, frightened voice was Mor's. Cas raised his head slowly, his eyes open in slits. Nothing. Still a jail cell. He dropped his head again. How long had he been in here? Nothing changed about the light down here, although he knew at least one guard rotation had changed. No food yet. Cup of water suggested at least some hours. A day?

"_Cas, speak to me. Where are you? I'm using our tie to the… the veil to speak to you._"

He couldn't reply. He could hear her but there was no magic in him. No power. Nothing to send her way, to let her know. Her voice was so faint he could barely hear it now.

"_Cas, they said there was a battle… Cas talk to me. My father said you were taken. I can feel you're alive. Is Az with you? Do you know where he is?_" Mor's voice was tearful. Cassian closed his own eyes tightly as they watered at the sound. But her voice had faded to nearly nothing, and as she kept speaking, he couldn't understand her. Eventually there was no longer any hint of her at all.

Azriel. Azriel left, and now this. Amarantha would end up stumbling onto Velaris just from all of them finding their way out of its protection. But Az... he hadn't been at the camps. And Amarantha would have bragged if she'd had him, he was sure of it. So, where was he?

Time passed. Cassian wasn't sure how much. Another cup of water was brought. He drank it, ignoring the strange metallic taste. Probably poisoned. He no longer cared.

"Oh, _general…" _Amarantha's voice, that awful dripping seductive voice, whispered in Cassian's mind, like sludge that found its way into every wrinkle.

"_One of your Illyrian warriors offered to tell me the location of more war camps in exchange for setting his woman and child free._" He felt something like a caress, a gentle breeze along the back of his neck, ruffling his long hair. Another along his shoulder, down his arm. He jumped, trying to get away from it, snarling into nothing. No one was in here with him.

"_He gave me the locations._ _They're all dead or part of my army now. I did set the woman and child free, in the middle of a mountain range. They're probably dead, too. Didn't my Rhys ever tell you people not to believe a fucking word I say?_"

Cassian covered his face with his hands, pressing his palms over his eyes as hard as he could. The silver cuffs on his wrists flashed suddenly a bright, nearly blinding red as his power tried to force its way out and failed. What a mess he'd gotten himself into. Keir had sold them out, had sent him into that camp knowing she'd be there. She'd been waiting for a general, hadn't she? Waiting for the highest-ranking member of the Night Court's military Keir could fool. But she hadn't known his name - which means Keir hadn't given it to her. Or his title. He had to stay calm. Think his way out. How was she talking to him?

No, wait. She had all of their powers, didn't she? All those arrogant High Lords. Even if she couldn't use them very well, if they were clumsy and unwieldy in her hands, she had Rhys's daemati in her, too.

The voice in his head he heard as a violent splash of viscous red, running down the corners of his mind: "_Who do you love, little bat?_"


	27. Chapter 27

Cassian had expected torture. He heard the cries, after all, of others down here in the dungeons with him. He heard Illyrians even, from time to time, some of the war bands that had been abducted who did not knuckle under. He was proud of them, of the warriors who fought to the end.

But sooner or later they stopped screaming. They all, eventually, stopped screaming.

No one had tortured him. Instead, he remained locked up in the cell. It had been weeks. Maybe months, at this point? He couldn't tell, since nothing about time changed. Even the food didn't come at regular intervals. Sometimes it was just bread, sometimes bread and cheese, every once in a while a bit of old chicken or a cup of boiled vegetables. There was never enough, and so he couldn't even mark passage of time by when he grew hungry - he was always, _always_ hungry. Those endless probably poisoned cups of water came constantly, at least, although not in any particular routine. His wings ached from being constricted, from his inability to fully extend them. His muscles had begun to hurt from never being able to fully lay down, although at least he could stand all the way up, and sometimes spent as much time as he could just going up onto his tiptoes and then back down again to stretch. There was a bucket in the corner that was changed out fairly regularly, by a series of nameless, faceless guards, who shoved him roughly against the wall to hold him still, his wings crushed and aching, while one did the actual changing. Sometimes they would come by and dump buckets of water over his head to clean him.

The silver around his neck, his wrists, his ankles was never changed. And he felt his power draining away into it, day after day. Hour after hour. A constant sense of losing something, a constant fight with his own instincts to not try to escape his own skin. He was exhausted. At first he'd thought he was just tired from her poison and from the fight, but as time went on, he never felt any better.

Eventually, he realized that he was at his most tired when the tiny garnets in those hateful cuffs glowed brightest.

Cassian could wait. Someone would have some need for him eventually. He'd be in the darker tunnels with the rest of the Illyrians if they hadn't devised _some_ use for him. This time spent in waiting and silence was meant to break him. Because he was the one Keir had sent, he thought. They knew he was important; but somehow, Keir had not chosen to tell them why, or who he even was.

He wished he _were_ in the tunnels. At least in the tunnels he could have spread his wings to their full width, let the muscles work. Visited with the soldiers, shown strength as their commander.

The only thing he had was her voice, sometimes. Mor, calling to him from far away, using their tenuous connection thanks to the veil over Velaris that Rhys had entrusted them with. He couldn't contact her back; the silver cuffs were a kind of gag over his mind. But he could hear her, and he knew she could feel he was alive. That Velaris still held.

He'd felt Az more than heard him - a fleeting thing, through the veil, an occasional wisp of panic and worry. Cas was glad he was the one here and not Az, but he wondered if his brother had ever made it home to Velaris, where he'd been.

_where are you cas?_

He couldn't answer, but with the raids on the Illyrian camps, and with more happening as some of the warriors below began to break under the torture down here in the dungeon, Azriel had to have a pretty damn good guess.

It was dark, and small, and there were no stars. There was no sky. And he couldn't even stretch his wings, let alone fly. All he could do was scratch, sometimes until he bled, at the edges of the silver cuffs, and wait.

It was worse than torture, the waiting. No doubt that was on purpose.

Cas had done similar things to their own prisoners, in the past.

Finally, _finally,_ weeks - or months, or maybe this really was a nightmare and it had only been hours - later, he heard the shuffle-step of the guard, a regular he'd gotten used to seeing, one of the ways he tried to mark that another day had passed, when the shuffle-step started up again. Except that he was pretty sure Shuffle-Step worked an irregular schedule, so even that wasn't perfect.

The guard knocked the metal cup against the bars. Even though Cassian had watched him, he still jumped at the loudness of the sound. There hadn't been any screaming in three Shuffle-Step shifts. So three days. Or five? Or just two. He had started to get used to the quiet.

Cassian looked up at him, his lanky, dirty hair hanging in clumps dried together with the blood that had run when they'd hit him over the head. The rest of him was coated in mud, and dirt, and worse things he chose not to think about. With no power, he could not clean himself at all.

He was dirty and stunk and he knew it, but Cassian's hazel eyes burned bright nonetheless. Unbroken.

"Drink up," The guard growled at him. He was some sort of tree-related creature, which Cassian thought must be rough, stuck under a mountain with no sun. He felt sort of sympathetic, since he hadn't exactly seen much of the daylight either these days.

_Feeling sympathy for your captors is the first sign that you're going to lose yourself in it, Cassian._

He took the cup, drinking down the cool, clear liquid as quickly as possible. Once, he'd lingered over it and they'd taken the cup away again half-drunk. He needed anything he could get. The metallic tang had made him gag on it the first few times, but by now he barely tasted it. It couldn't have been poison - he'd have been dead by now. Maybe just bad cave water.

He handed the empty cup back, once he'd wrung every drop he could from the inside. His stomach growled, but he could ignore that. When the guard only lingered, looking down at him with eyes the creamy shade of the inside of a tree trunk when you cut it down, Cassian frowned. "What?"

"Gird yourself," The guard replied in a deep, rumbling voice. "You're going to be presented to the queen. You have my condolences."

Cassian narrowed his eyes to slits, then spat to the side, being careful to ensure it went nowhere near the guard, who had been the closest thing to kind Cas had experienced down here. "Some queen. False queen, I say."

The guard's barklike skin split in what Cassian realized after a moment was a smile. "I'll drink to that," He rumbled, and then he was off to check on the other cells, that shuffle-step fading away down the hall.

In the back of his mind, in a tiny, far away voice, he could Azriel whispering _not supposed to be you should have been me where are you_

"Under the Mountain," Cassian whispered out loud, knowing he was muted, that nothing would ever get through. But he felt the same itch, the one he always felt when they were apart. That deep, instinctive need to find his way home to Azriel again. To Rhys and Mor. Even to Amren.

There was another silence, for a while. Hours. Not a day, he didn't think. He slept for a while, woke up again. Some new poor creature was screaming. Gibbering. Cassian stared into the darkness of his cell, unmoved. The screaming didn't even keep him awake any longer.

You could get used to anything.

* * *

Finally, they came for him.

Two guards, neither of them Shuffle-Step. They unlocked the door that Cassian's chain never quite let him reach. Both of them held swords, and one had a dagger already out in his off-hand. "Behave, and you won't feel this," The taller one said, each word clipped and angry. Cassian slowly raised his hands up, keeping them in the air. A bright ball of light flashed over one guard's shoulder and Cassian closed his eyes against brightness he hadn't seen in weeks.

Or months. Hours.

"You move, you die," One guard said. Cassian slowly nodded. _Whatever means I get a bath, asshole._

They moved his hands for him, until they were pressed, palms flat, against the back of his head with his arms bent. He heard one of the guards whisper something, some soft combination of nonsense sounds, and then his hands wouldn't pull apart any longer.

"Keep 'em right there," The guard hissed at him.

"I don't see how I have an option to do anything else," Cas muttered.

The two guards chuckled at each other. Cas stood in absolute stillness, watching one of them pull an oddly-shaped key off a keyring he wore around his belt. Cassian, without moving his eyes, tried to memorize every fuzzy half-formed detail. The key was red, as though it had been carved from the same garnets he wore right now. It did not go into a specific lock, but was laid flat against the silver cuff around his neck, where it sunk in, faded away, and then he heard the chain pop free from the wall.

_Amarantha's a careful one, _he thought, as they began to pull him along.

Hands bound, led by one guard ahead pulling on the chain and another behind, pushing him to move faster, always a little bit faster than he comfortably could. Cassian had done similar things himself, to prisoners in the past. Funny, how it was significantly less amusing when he was on the wrong end of the chain.

"Where are we going?" He asked, trying to make his voice cheerful. It mostly came out a snarl, but he thought it seemed like a _much_ nicer snarl than the last time he'd tried to talk to someone.

"Clean you up for her," One of the guards answered. Interesting; they answered questions. And Shuffle-Step clearly wasn't a fan of Amarantha's. He could use that, somehow. Maybe. Az was better at subtle things. Az could have used his shadows to manipulate them all into... something. Cassian's specialty was _unsubtle_ at best.

He took the time to try and stretch his wings, just a little, but as soon as he did the guard behind him shoved him again and he stumbled. Gritting his teeth against the ache, he folded them back up.

Clean up in a prison was the same no matter what prison it was. Shoved into a bare room, told to kneel where he was and keep his hands behind his head. At least they used warm water, rather than cold, as they washed his hair and cleaned him up. That was something. He watched the water run with dirt and old blood, into a drain in the floor, until finally on the fourth pass the water ran clean.

With the guards both pointing their swords in his direction, he was allowed to lower his hands, ordered to dry himself and dress, in a clean, plain pair of black pants and black shirt he pulled on over his head.

He could have taken them both out, he thought. But he wouldn't have known where to run. Under the Mountain was a maze, a warren of tunnels and darkness. If he were honest with himself, Cas was worried that he would only run himself further and deeper down into the darkness. He needed to be patient, memorize everything. Keep track of every turn they took from prison to throne room. Even if he did free himself, he'd have to free the Illyrians, right? And beyond even trying to find his way out, trying to figure out where the dissident tunnels were would be even harder.

They led him by the chain, and Cassian could tell they were heading subtly upwards. They passed closed doors, seemingly dozens of them. There were servants who fled at the mere sight of the guards, and Cas noted that, too. _I would have thought her own people would be less frightened of her than the rest of us. But maybe she has fewer loyal subjects than she thinks._

He was brought into a court receiving room, which he knew even without having seen it before. The huge throne on the dais above the rest, the smaller throne beside it. A few doors that led off in different directions. Cassian memorized it all, until a hard shove sent him sprawling towards the empty throne.

There was one other person in the room - another Illyrian. They met eyes, and Cas could tell immediately that the other man had been one of the screaming voices he had heard while in his cell. The Illyrian warrior's eyes were… haunted and half-gone. He had curled around himself where he stood, twitching and jerking away from any movement as though he expected another blow. His wings were torn and bloody, unbandaged, unhealed, full of puncture wounds. He'd never fly again, unless they got him to a seriously talented healer, fast. There were so many bruises…

"You said you know his name," One of the guards said, gruffly. The other Illyrian, also chained with silver cuffs, slowly nodded.

"No, soldier," Cassian snapped. "That is an _order._" His anonymity was the only card he had left to play.

The Illyrian only looked at him, blankly. "My mate," He whispered. There were no tears in his eyes. No emotion on his face. He was empty, after the torture. Just a shell. "They have my mate. Our son. They took her arm already, they said they'll take my boy's wings..."

Cassian took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. How many times had he and Az been asked to take someone into a dark place and ask questions until they break? How many times had they found out about a mate, a wife or kids, and used that to apply a little extra pressure? They'd never _hurt_ anyone innocent, but... "Don't trust any promise from _her_ as to your mate's safety," was all he said, but he let the anger drop out of his voice. No one was in the room. Which meant it was either before or after the court's opening for the night.

This little show wasn't meant to be witnessed. Not even by Amarantha herself.

"Who is he, then?" The first guard asked.

The Illyrian warrior looked down at the ground. "General Naylen. He heads the largest division of our military." The man's shoulders slumped, a defeated man. _But not so broken, after all_.

"Same name the others gave," The guards mumbled to each other.

Torture was so much worse when it happened to you. And still the man lied to protect his identity. To protect Rhys. He felt that spike of pride in his people, again - even locked down there in the dark, knowing their general was up here in the prisons, they had worked out a lie to tell and stuck to it under torture.

"Good," The guard said with oily slickness. He gestured, and the second guard led the broken warrior away, already asking in a hushed whisper about his son, his mate. Cassian looked sidelong at the second guard, who still stood next to him.

"Are you really going to let them go?"

"Amarantha says not to," The guard said thoughtfully. Then he yanked on Cassian's chain, forcing him up to the throne itself, up onto the dais. "She says to take the boy's wings anyway, and sell him to Hybern as a zoo creature." The guard placed the chain against the black throne and murmured a spell. The black of the throne seemed to slowly infect the chain, twining into and around the links, until it just reached the cuff around his neck. Cassian slumped forward as his exhaustion was suddenly so much worse, onto his knees before the throne. His hands, which they had put back up behind his head after he finished dressing, were finally allowed to drop free. His upper arms burned from having held them there for so long. He didn't even have the energy to fight when they hooked new chains to hold his hands close to the floor, so he couldn't stand up. "Here's the thing, though," the guard continued. "If you never keep your promises, what reason does anyone have to give you what you want?"

Cassian looked slowly up at him, head tilted, confused.

"I'm trying to say, yes," The guard murmured. "We're going to set all three of them free, in Night Court lands, and they can fend for themselves from there. We're not going to tell the queen. I'll keep the mercy I promise, even if she doesn't. We've already freed a few others who have given information up. Poor wretches don't do well in the tunnels, with no sky. Who knows where they'll go for safety."

_I know where they could go, but we never told them about it. _

"Amarantha's going to have the entire Illyrian race by the time they're done breaking. But I don't like the idea of cutting off a boy's wings because of who his father is. Younglings are so… rare."

"Thank you," Cassian said, with feeling. "Thank you."

_Feeling gratitude for the small mercies of captors is another sign that you're losing it, Cassian. This is how you break._

The guard snorted. "Don't thank me. You pieces of shit should have given up when you had the chance." The guard simply turned and walked away. When the door closed behind him, Cassian was alone in her throne room, chained to the throne itself, and his muscles felt so weak he couldn't even stand.

_Gonna find you,_ Azriel's voice whispered into the back of his mind. He didn't know why, but Azriel's voice seemed so much younger, when it was inside their heads. _Gonna find you._

All Cassian could think was, _please don't._

* * *

Cassian saw Tamlin first.

It might have been a couple of hours. At some point he'd fallen asleep, curled right up on the stone floor, but had jerked back awake before too long at the sound of footsteps somewhere nearby. There was a fireplace, cutting the chill of the room, but it was too far away for him to really enjoy it. He was clean, and dry, and he could stretch his wings to their fullest width and he enjoyed the welcome feeling, finally losing some of the ache. He'd closed his eyes, letting his hands rest on the tops of his thighs, as he opened and closed his wings, feeling the muscles in his back shifting. He might have done that for a few minutes, or much, much longer. He had no concept of time, by now. He extended his wings until they burned with the effort, the muscles screaming from lack of use over however long he'd been in the prisons.

"What the fuck?" He heard someone say, and slowly opened his eyes. He and Tamlin stared at each other from across the room, where the High Lord of Spring had just entered through one of the doors. Tamlin was thinner, than when he'd last seen him, and his hair was cut short. There were shadows in those eyes. Cassian could have told you just looking at him that he was in his own personal hell. Azriel had had eyes like that, when they first dumped him at the Illyrian war camp. When Az had seen the world as angry people waiting for a chance to hurt him and locked doors.

Tamlin now had a carefully arranged spiral design of scars on his face, a less arrogant set to his jaw. There was a new cut the width of his palm marked on his cheek, and it looked to have been made slowly and on purpose. Bruises, a mix of faded and brand-new, were smattered across his neck and face, with more that were obvious finger-marks around each wrist. He looked less like some faerie-tale Prince Charming and more like the beaten-down captive rumor made him out to be.

Amarantha stood next to him, arms crossed just under her breasts, a slow smile spreading across her face. Tonight she wore a slinky blood-red dress, a necklace made of rubies, and her jagged crown. Cassian's eyes narrowed. He did not move from his kneeling position on the floor.

"Oh no," Tamlin said out loud, in a voice that was strangled with shame and horror. Tamlin recognized him, Cas thought. No one did anymore, Rhys had locked their memories away from the world, but the High Lord of Spring looked right at him, and _knew him_. "_This _is what he gave?"

"This is what he gave," Amarantha said, laughter in her voice. "His mother's people. This is one of them."

"His mother's…" Tamlin trailed off, and looked from Amarantha to Cassian. "He gave up… Illyrians? Plural?"

"Hello, High Lord," Cassian said evenly, as though they were meeting casually. "You look like ripe shit." The cuffs on his wrists itched. It was all in his head but all he could think about. He felt them slowly draining his power and fought the urge to try and rip them off.

"I know," Tamlin said, with a faint smile in response. "You don't look much better." Cassian had met Tamlin once, at some party long ago, when he was still friends with Rhys. They had glared at each other for most of the evening, and actually what conversation they'd had at that first meeting had gone very much like this. Rhys had accused him later of being jealous. They'd fought it out in the sparring ring. Cas felt his mouth twitch in a slight smile at the memory. He'd beaten Rhys into the ground that day.

"Who do you have here?" Tamlin asked Amarantha, in a near-whisper. If Amarantha had been any less self-absorbed, she would have realized something was wrong right about now.

_Tamlin, you know exactly who I am._

"Naylen, they tell me," Amarantha purred, a thick and sickening victory in her voice. "He's been marked as an important general to the army. We'll show Rhys his Illyrian generals can't even stand against me. And Keir's troops are mine to command, now." She moved towards Cassian and from behind her, Cas saw Tamlin's eyes narrow, thoughtfully.

"They threatened a warrior's son," Cassian snapped, watching her warily. "A little boy. To get him to give the information up."

"Sure did. I'm inspired, as always, by your charming homeland." Amarantha sauntered over to him, and the closer she got, the more tired he felt. As though her throne was awake, and watching him, and wanted to ensure he couldn't even find the energy to bare his teeth, let alone attack her. "Maybe we should have a little _talk_ about that homeland-"

"He's beautiful, isn't he?" Tamlin said suddenly, interrupting her. "Look at those wings, really _look_ at them. We never see those with Rhys. I don't allow Illyrians in my court, it's been ages since I've seen any."

"Not beautiful," Amarantha said wryly, raising an eyebrow. She turned to look back at Tamlin, who had set his face into an empty smile that reminded Cassian very much of Rhys. "Not like you and my Rhys, at least. But I'll bet… he has other talents to recommend him. Maybe we should find out."

Tamlin looked briefly to Cas, then snapped, "I need to see Rhys," and turned as if to go.

"No," Amarantha said flatly. Cassian watched Tamlin simply freeze where he stood. There was a sense of satisfaction, to see the arrogant bastard they'd all hated brought so low. But at the same time… _whatever she's done to him, she's done to Rhys fifty times over. _Amarantha gestured to her throne. "Sit."

Tamlin gritted his teeth, hesitating, and Cassian watched the expression of pain, the breath he caught. Finally, he stalked over to the throne and sat, as ordered. "Please let me warn Rhys. If he sees… one of his mother's people here…"

"More fun for me," Amarantha purred, putting one foot in front of the other with a sultry step. She put her hand on Cassian's head as she passed him and he jerked back, to the end of his chain, turning to glare. He swallowed back his disgust as Amarantha settled herself into Tamlin's lap, running her hands over his hair, slowly moving her hips against his. "Can't wait to see his face. So tell me, Tamlin-my-love… how long do you think we have until courtiers begin to arrive?" Those red-tipped fingernails traced a line of raised scars, small bumps in spiral designs, that Cassian saw wound down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. She leaned over to whisper something in his ear and Tamlin's head tilted back. His eyes closed, briefly, and when she trailed her hands down his chest and stomach again, this time he moved under her hands and made a soft sound, not quite a moan, in the back of his throat.

Cassian realized with horrified disgust what was about to happen.

"I don't know," Tamlin replied, in a hoarse whisper, shifting under her hands, his own clenched into fists. "I don't know how much time. I don't want to-"

"Yes you do. You _always_ do." Amarantha said, rolling her hips over him. When she looked back towards Cassian with a smile, Tamlin pushed himself forwards, pressing his mouth to hers, pulling her back to him.

It occurred to Cas that Tamlin was making absolutely certain Amarantha was too distracted to think too much about him.

Amarantha's hands roamed all through the kiss, and Tamlin groaned, softly, unwillingly. As her hands closed over his pants, pushing her breasts out as she arched her back, Tamlin took one nipple into his mouth, sucking on it through the fabric of her dress. Cassian tried to put his hands over his ears to drown out her... noises, but they caught on the chains.

She kept up a constant whisper of commands, of orders, and Tamlin followed every one, those empty eyes on hers, a facsimile of desire. Cassian kept his stare on the fireplace, until the bright flames seemed to sear him, until he saw only white when he looked away, until the fire danced behind his closed eyes.

At one point, he heard her whisper, "Watch _this,_" and knew by Tamlin's answering sound that he definitely did_ not_ want to watch.

"May the Cauldron make me blind," Cassian whispered, keeping his eyes on the fire. He only looked back once, and saw the back of Amarantha's wild red braids, her well-muscled, curving back, the skin shifting as she moved herself up and down, taking her sweet time, whispering into Tamlin's ear. There was a misery in Tamlin's face, even as his body reacted with the desire she'd commanded him to feel.

Tamlin met Cassian's eyes over her shoulder. He mouthed, _I'll keep your secret._

Cassian turned his gaze back to the fire. But he felt himself relax, a little, in relief.


	28. Chapter 28

Rhysand's house of cards collapsed as he walked into the throne room and saw Cassian chained there.

He'd been sent on an errand, running a message to Eris at the Autumn Court. He'd enjoyed the brief feeling of the sun on his face, and had less enjoyed the smug satisfaction that radiated out of the new Autumn Court Lord's every pore. He'd had to ignore the usual array of running commentary on what he did with Amarantha, but standing in the sunshine, he could almost handle it. Soldiers were being moved into the Spring Court lands, which belonged to Amarantha at this point anyway.

Once upon a time, Rhysand would have found the idea of Tamlin's lands trampled beneath the hooves, and boots, and talons of tens of thousands of troops hilarious. Now, he worried about what would happen if all of this worked, if Amarantha really got everything she wanted. If Prythian truly became simply a vassal of Amarantha's will, a land that functioned just to provide tribute to the King of Hybern.

He'd come back, redressed himself in the court clothes that Amarantha preferred, and headed into the throne room, where he heard a scandalized murmur of courtiers. As he walked, they stared at him, and Rhys began to wonder what had changed.

Tamlin met him just before the entrance, placing himself between Rhys and the small crowd he could see across the room. "What's going on?" Rhys asked, frowning.

Tamlin had a scent on him that Rhys recognized, _her_ scent, and fought back anger at the fact that she'd made even the times he was able to leave, however briefly, something that meant Tamlin would suffer even more. Tamlin leaned in and said in a whisper, as fast as the words would come out, "Don't let her know you know him, Rhys, don't let her know."

"That I know who?" Rhys said, then turned and saw.

The world stopped, with Cassian in its center.

"_Come and stay with me," one short, dark-haired boy said to another, at the outskirts of an Illyrian war-camp. It was cold, and the boy did not have much more than a thin shirt on. He held out a coat to him, something his mother had sent._

"_Go fuck yourself, rich boy," the second snapped in reply. Then, after a second's hesitation, reached out and took the offered coat._

There was a small crowd of courtiers, mostly Hybernian High Fae who congregated here around Amarantha, gathered around Cassian. Cas had been chained by his neck to Amarantha's throne. Rhys saw those silver cuffs at his wrists and ankles, and knew they were Hybernian. An old way to hold mortal slaves, he thought. He'd seen chains like that when they were freeing mortals during the war. Two thinner chains went from his wrists into rings set in the floor, keeping him stuck sitting or kneeling, unable to get up, to pull away.

Amarantha herself sat, watching with an indulgent smile as this courtier or that reached out to touch the edge of his wings, run a hand over his rounded ears. Cassian's jaw was set but his eyes blazed with fury as he tried constantly to escape one set of hands only to run into another. He bit someone who tried to touch his face and the lady jerked her hand back, letting out a string of curses.

_Fifty years. _

He had spent fifty years in her bed, chained to the wall, under her. Fifty years killing and torturing, rifling through innocent peoples' minds to find the information Amarantha demanded. He'd been beaten himself, tortured for days, and known through it all that at least his family was safe. He'd watched Tamlin fall apart, had hurt and hurt and _hurt_ him on her orders and then put him back together, again and again…

He had sold out Illyrian war bands to save Tamlin's life. And in the end, it didn't matter. There was his brother, chained to her throne.

_It was all for nothing._

"She _doesn't know who he is,_" Tamlin hissed again, just as Amarantha's head began to turn. By the time Amarantha's eyes met his, the words had sunk in, and all Rhys showed her was his usual seductive smile. Tamlin walked just behind him into court, both their heads held high.

Someone hissed as they passed, "So which one of you kneels at night?"

Tamlin turned his green-gold eyes on the lordling who had spoken, the bruises standing out on skin paled by more than a year trapped in this dark hell, the slice along his cheek from Amarantha's ash knife still a startlingly bright red, and said mildly, "Mostly me. Did you know I'm usually the one on my back, too? Turns out I like it better that way. Would you like some details? One time, Rhys did this thing with his hand-"

Despite the panic trying to rise in his throat, despite the drumbeat of _have to save Cas, _Rhys felt a moment of such sharp pride that it hurt at the layers of embarrassment on the lordling's face as he stumbled back and away.

Clearly, he'd been a _terrible_ influence on Tamlin, which was exactly what the High Lord of Spring had badly needed.

"What's this?" Rhys asked Amarantha as he got closer, eyebrow raised. His voice was cold. "You didn't say anything about locking one of them up in _here_." He didn't dare look Cassian in the face. His heart pounded in his ears, in his throat, down at the end of his wrists. _Save you save you save you save you_

"Oh, did I not?" Amarantha asked innocently. "You gave them up to me, after all. I thought you might want to be reminded of your _moment of selflessness. _Or… wait." She looked down at Cassian, whose eyes promised a horrifying death right back. "Tell me, general, is it more noble to sacrifice your soldiers for someone you love, or to sacrifice someone you love to save your people?"

Cassian's eyes flicked to Rhysand's, and he let out a sudden breath. "It's true, then," He said heavily. "You did it." Rhys opened his mouth as though he would deny it, then just closed it again. Cassian looked away from him.

Someone else touched the general's wing, ran a finger along the sensitive spot just inside the outer bones and he snarled, trying to snap the man's fingers off with his teeth. The Hybernian court laughed. Rhys looked around and saw that members of the Dawn Court, at least, were furiously angry. He could see the back of Thesan's own head as he left the room, his careful, thoughtful steps no doubt disguising rage.

Probably thinking of his own Peregryn lover, and what this might mean for them. Cassian's face was a mask of rage. "When I get these off of me-" He hissed, but Amarantha interrupted him with a sparkling, brilliant peal of laughter.

"Oh, you silly darling. You're never, ever, _ever_ not going to have those on you. You might as well start thinking of them as skin."

_You're too late, _Amarantha whispered in his dreams, over and over and over again, as his brothers were pinned by stakes in their wings, as she moved from one to the next, using their wings to turn their bodies against them, forcing him to watch. Azriel's empty face, Cassian's helpless rage. Always, in the end, turned to her purposes. Always underneath her. _You didn't think any part of you would ever escape me, did you?_

He'd assumed Cas would still be in Velaris. They weren't supposed to leave. They were _never_ supposed to leave. What was Cassian even _doing here_?

"How… how long are you going to keep him there?" Rhys asked, his voice nearly cracking, and he only barely pulled it under control. He saw one of her eyebrows raise in curiosity. "Tell your courtiers to get their hands off of him. Illyrians don't… appreciate that. It's sick, even to watch."

"No, I don't think I _will_ tell them to leave off him," Amarantha said, gesturing to the empty chair next to her. Tamlin moved ahead of him, taking his seat, although he leaned as far away from her as he could. Rhys, moving on instinct alone, took up his usual position just behind Tamlin. But he couldn't quite keep his eyes off of Cas, who really _did _seem like a captured animal, crouched and baring his teeth to keep them away from him, scratching compulsively at his wrists.

"I want him _humiliated_. I want every Illyrian warrior in my tunnels to hear about this. I want them to know that this could be _their future, _that even their generals are just… toys, to me, if they don't do what I want. That if they won't kneel and serve in my army, that I will treat them like the animals they are. That there is no dignity in resistance. Those who resist… become less than fae. He might as well be _human, _now. And it could be any one of them, next. Or their women."

She twitched a sickening smile. "This one seems to be fairly high up. I figure he'll put some fear into them."

"This is needlessly cruel," Rhys said heavily, turning his eyes away. "Even for you."

"I think I'll take that as my royal motto, to go with my coat of arms," Amarantha said sweetly. "'Needlessly cruel'. It has a ring to it. If Illyrians hate the idea of being trapped under a mountain without ever seeing the sky, they should agree to fight, shouldn't they? Go get something to drink, my loves. Then…" She clapped her hands and the musicians started up again. "I'd like to see you dance. I have a victory to celebrate tonight."

There were offended murmerings from all around and Amarantha barked out a laugh. "Hush, you miscreants. You've seen men dance before. You're just mad because they're both High Lords." She waved one hand in dismissal, and looked Rhys directly in the face as she purred, "Go play."

Rhys closed his eyes, briefly. _That's a part you play, in your court. It's not you. It's not you. You are not like her._

It was Tamlin that snuck Cassian drinks of wine and bites of food. He was careful, only stopping briefly by the chained Illyrian warrior when Amarantha was off with her courtiers, when no one was taking the chance to humiliate Cassian by touching his wings. Rhys didn't try to talk to him - it was too risky, and besides that he couldn't bear to look at him, could not get too close. He couldn't keep this up, if he did.

Cassian drank, and ate, what Tamlin brought. They did not speak, but some understanding had been come to between them. When Tamlin wasn't looking, though, Rhys caught Cassian staring at the blond man with a penetrating, analytical expression. The general of a High Lord's army considering whether or not Tamlin constituted a threat.

Rhys threw himself into the wine with true dedication, letting it fuzz out the edges of the terror that threatened. He'd done everything to keep this secret safe, and now part of that secret was chained to Amarantha's chair. But Velaris still held. He could still feel it. He could still feel the other three, a murmur of worry and uncertainty in his mind, a connection he could not quite make strongly enough to speak to them. The hint of Azriel he could feel was nearly mad with panic and dread.

He could not give this up, if it meant Velaris still held. Everything he was doing… he'd spent fifty years telling himself it was for a reason. That he wasn't just a captive, a whore in her bed, that there was something more noble to it. Cassian threatened that delusion.

He saw Nuala and Cerridwen at the edges of the room, saw their eyes widen when they realized what they were looking at. He met their eyes. _Go home to Velaris. _They were gone. Rhys felt tears in his eyes. Good. At least someone could simply walk out of here.

Tamlin was holding out yet another cup of wine, looking carefully at him, head tilted. They stood in an empty corner, just the two of them, although he could feel eyes on them from not too far off. The world did not quite spin, but seemed a little unsteady. Rhys felt himself smile, just a little. "Are you trying to get me drunk, Spring?" His voice was full of more feeling than he meant it to be. The mask was slipping.

"I was drunk when I met you. Do you remember that?"

Rhys snorted. "Of course I do. You lost a bet to my sister." He thought of how his sister might have reacted to how things had ended up, and felt that old grief, dulled by time but never gone, creep up again, settling with a tightness into his chest. "Your hair was short back then, too."

"I think that's why she wanted it short, actually," Tamlin said, edging a little closer. Rhys did not try to stop him. "That's how old I was when she first... asked for me. She didn't even ask _me_ \- she asked my father."

Rhys looked at him, sharply. "You were hardly even a man at that point."

Tamlin shrugged. "When has there been a moral line in the sand Amarantha doesn't try to have sex on? Anyway, I mentioned it, because... do you remember how your sister got me to drink more later, and I ended up dancing with her?"

Rhys felt, despite himself, a smile find its way onto his face. "Yes. She laughed for _hours _over that. I think she genuinely liked you, but also, you made an absolute fool of yourself. My sister was always weak for fools..." Rhys trailed off. _Maybe something we had in common._

"Well... if Amarantha intends to make us dance for her tonight, I'm going to need the liquid courage. And so are you." He held the cup out. Tamlin's eyes were bright and sparkling with the wine he'd had so far, his face had a red flush to it. "I heard her talking. She's taking him back to her rooms, later."

"No," Rhysand whispered, fear a wash of cold water down his spine. _Stakes through his wings, Cassian's face a rebellious snarl as she touched him, as she-_

"Just to watch _us_, I think. She said she doesn't want to demean herself with _animals_. Rhys," Tamlin said softly, "She doesn't know who he is. She still doesn't know. This isn't great, but there has to be something we can do to help him. We - the three of us, you and I and him - have knowledge that she doesn't have. No one else seems to remember him-"

"There's a reason for that," Rhys murmured.

"Great. Good. Just don't give away that _you_ know him, or she'll smell blood, and she'll use him to get you to give up even more."

Rhys nodded, slowly, and drank his whole cup of wine without taking his eyes off Tamlin's face. "Like she did with you."

Guilt flickered in Tamlin's expression. "Yes. Like she did with me."

The musicians were playing music from the Night Court, thudding, insistent melodies that were always best heard in the dark. He could hear Amarantha calling for them and closed his eyes, briefly. "Is she really going to make us dance?" He asked, softly.

"Yes," was Tamlin's reply, a ripple of pain over his face as they both resisted the command to go to her, for a moment. "She thinks you're upset because she's rubbing having a general here in your face. And you're famous for not giving a damn about anyone, Rhys."

"So?"

Tamlin held out one hand. "So put that mask on and don't give a damn. Dance with me. I'm not as good at dancing at you think I am. I'm actually pretty terrible if I'm not leading, and it'll be amusing to watch me trip on myself. We'll go to her room, and Cas will just have to try and understand. After that… then we'll talk about how to get Cassian out of here. I have an idea for how to sneak him out."

"I'm amused that you assume I thought you were good at dancing in the first place," Rhys said smoothly, then realized what Tamlin had actually just _said_ and blinked. "Spring, you're… she had me in your head, she forced me to rearrange... you shouldn't be able to plan for escape…"

Tamlin grinned, flashing teeth like fangs. "I can't talk about… forbidden things… for _me." _He leaned up, whispering in Rhys's ear. "She never made you change me so I can't rescue _anyone else. _So we have _two pieces _of knowledge that she doesn't have."

Rhys laughed, feeling hopeful for the first time since he'd seen Cassian on the floor. "Loopholes." He took Tamlin's hand. "Fae love a good weakness in a spell. I don't think the Illyrian bands are going to be enough for her, though." He frowned, glancing over his shoulder, as if trying to see Cassian where he was still crowded by courtiers. The pain from resisting Amarantha made his voice thin. "I think she has more planned."

"Probably. But we can't do anything about that right now. So, Nightmare, may I have this dance?"

Rhys laughed again. "Only if you agree to dance _my _way." They headed back, the pain in their shoulders receding, slowly, as they did as they were told.

"Is dancing your way going to be_ incredibly_ embarrassing and unfit for public consumption?"

Rhys stopped and turned to look at Tamlin with eyes that were full of a frightened need, even as his smile stayed the same. "I prefer to consider my way of dancing… distracting. For us both." He let himself look over at Amarantha's throne.

Cassian did not look up. His eyes were focused on the floor, his hands were curled into fists so tightly over his thighs his fingernails made bleeding crescent moons in his palms. Amarantha reached out and put a hand on top of his head, casually possessive, and said something to the courtiers. When she did, they pulled their hands away from Cas as though he had suddenly become a flame. There was a shudder of rage through Cassian, but he held still. Apparently Amarantha's touch, however unwelcome, was better than the hands on his wings.

"I need a distraction, Tam," Rhys said, a little hoarsely, in a whisper. "He's my brother."

Tamlin nodded, slowly. "Put him into a dream."

Rhys looked at him sharply, and Tamlin just shook his head. "He'll forgive you. Trust me. Just give him somewhere else to be in his head so he doesn't have to… be here, to watch us. Or hear." He swallowed. "Again. So he's not trapped there waiting for time to pass just to get back up and do it again."

The musicians started up a new song, and some deep new drum had been added, the beat of it could be felt even in the walls. Amarantha laughed happily; clearly this strange, unsettling melody was a favorite of hers.

"High Lord of Night," Tamlin said, his eyes on Cassian's miserable figure even as he turned towards Rhys. "I give you express permission to embarrass me in public."

"As if I've ever needed your permission to embarrass you. I was essentially doing that professionally for a while." Rhys let out a rush of breath. "I love you."

Tamlin just shrugged with one shoulder, an echo of a gesture he had once loathed in Rhys. "I love you, too."

_Once upon a time, a light prince vowed to kill a dark one._

"I'm going to get him out of here." Tamlin grinned, sliding his arms up around Rhys's neck, ignoring the stares from around them. He leaned over, whispering in his ear. "And she's going to be so busy waiting for _you_ to try and save him that she'll never see me coming."


	29. Chapter 29

Mor whistled when she opened the door.

Azriel had destroyed his room; every drawer was opened, emptied of its contents. The bed had been stripped. Paintings had been torn down. A chair was in seven different pieces; no, each one was in a totally different part of the room. There wasn't two square feet of clean space to be seen, and you could barely see any of it at all. It hung in a gloom, the heavy curtains shut, even in the middle of the day. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust well enough to see him where he sat in the middle of the floor.

For six months, Cas had been missing. For the first two, Azriel had at least _tried _to keep functioning, but by the end of month three he'd become silent, even for him, and strange. By the start of month four, he'd closed himself in here. They sometimes heard him creep around the house at night, going for food or drink, but otherwise... nothing but a closed door. Silence to their worried questions. Absolute darkness.

Six months after Cas had gone missing, Az had turned his room into the first home he ever knew. Amren had said, with surprising gentleness, that maybe he just needed time to accept that Cas wasn't coming back any time soon.

Well, Mor was tired of waiting. And today she had a good reason to pull him out of the dark.

Azriel himself sat in the middle of the mess, in some sort of nest he'd made of his ripped-up bedding. His hazel eyes looked off, at a distance further than any living thing could truly see, and his expression was empty. His wings were curled tightly against his back, his knees to his chest and his arms around them, resting his chin on top. Shadows swirled around him in constant motion, skittering away to the corners and then returning, tendrils of black smoke around his shoulders and wings, touching his face. Az did not react.

He must have bathed at least occasionally, although it had clearly been a few days based on the stale _male_ smell of the room.

"Get up, you giant baby," She said, her tone sweeter than her words.

Azriel did not move, or even look at her. He was moving his lips, she realized, though she couldn't hear any actual sounds coming out of him. His mouth and scarred hands seemed to be moving independently of him, twitching back and forth, as though he were speaking to someone.

"Az, you've_ got to get up_."

"I think you will find I don't," Azriel replied, his voice strange and tight. She realized his wings were shaking and sighed, crossing her arms in front of her, leaning on the doorframe. Shadows curled around his feet, slid up his arms and back down again, as though trying to comfort him and being rejected.

Mor knew the feeling.

"We're still fine," She said softly, reassuringly. "Valeris's wards hold. Amren rechecked all of them, they are all as strong as ever. And we can feel Cas. We know he's okay. When I talk to him, sometimes, I can feel that he hears me-"

"He's _not,_" Azriel snapped. "He is not okay. He's trapped there, in that… place. For _months_. I can feel him. I miss him. Last night I saw-"

"I'd prefer if you didn't tell me what you saw," Mor replied smoothly, taking first one delicate step and then another into the room. He did not warn her off this time. "But I can guess. She's a savage beast, isn't she?"

"That's what she thinks Cas is," Azriel muttered. He looked sidelong at her as she entered the room, but did not move a muscle. "A savage beast. She'll enslave them all, all the winged fae, right alongside humans. All our people."

"So we won't let her," Mor said soothingly, the way you might speak to a terrified mountain lion. She continued to, very slowly, pick her way around towards him. "How much glass is on the floor in here, Az?"

He glanced around, then curled himself up even tighter in the dark. "However much was in the room to be begin with is now probably on the floor. Close the door. It's too bright."

"_No._" Mor's voice was a snarl, as she looked around at the dim room. Azriel jumped at the uncharacteristic anger, finally looking her way. "No, I will not! You do _not _get to go back into the dark forever! If Cas were here, he'd beat the shit out of you for doing something like this!"

"If he were_ with_ me, I wouldn't have to! I would have _him,_ wouldn't I?!" Azriel snapped, and it was her turn to be startled. She'd never heard him speak like that before, not once in all the time they'd known each other.

"Az..."

"Cas is _mine,_" Azriel growled at her. "He's my _friend_ and my _brother _and he is _down there in the dark where I can't go._ So close the fucking door."

She finally made her way to him, clearing herself some space with her feet, carefully, and then sitting down right in front of him. "No, Az. I'm sorry, I miss him, too-"

"Not like I do," Az mumbled, pulling himself into a smaller, tighter ball.

"Oh, fuck _you,_ Az. He's my brother, too. And you were apart longer than this when Rhys's father was High Lord, and during the War."

Az did not look at her. "That was different. He was free. He was with the soldiers and the war bands back then, and he could fly. I could have gotten to him any time I wanted, if I had really wanted to. He and I agreed, if it got too bad, we could always just fly so far they'd never find us. I always knew where Cas was, back then. I always knew I could just go find him, and no one would stop me."

"Az... come out. You don't get to leave Amren and I _alone_ with this while you mope around. They are not dead. Neither of them. Rhys and Cas are both still alive, and still have minds under their own power. We can feel them both, and Nuala and Cerridwen said-"

"She has him _chained to her throne,_" Azriel finally looked up, and Mor realized that what she had initially thought was just fear or worry was actually a rage that had lit Azriel aflame from the inside. Looking into his hazel eyes was like looking directly into the heart of a volcano, just before the eruption.

"Chained like a _dog,_" Azriel continued, voice strangled with it. "Nuala said he must have been in the prisons at first, they didn't even know he was there until she brought him into the throne room_. That's_ what they said."

"I said she is a savage beast," Mor said, but she knew her voice was weak. "Az, I know. I'm worried about him, too."

"Cerridwen said- she lets people _touch him_\- his _wings- _it's a _novelty to them- those Hybern bastards_ that stay in her court_-_"

It occurred to Mor that the most frightening thing she had ever seen, in her life so far, was not the battlefield during the war. No, it was the sight of Azriel with _both_ Rhys and Cassian trapped beyond his reach. She wondered at what it would mean to see that kind of fury unleashed, to see the calmest, most expressionless person she'd ever met boil over with anger. "I know," She said, soothingly. "I know."

"I should have been with Cas." It was all he said, each word clipped, each drowning in its own despair.

"If you were, all _three_ of you might be down there now," Mor said, flatly this time. "My father said only one camp survived the raids intact." Her face twisted, thinking of her conversation with Keir, whose arrogant loathing of her only seemed to grow with time, rather than fade. He couldn't quite ignore her, not always, but he certainly did his best. "He's sending some of his own people to try and negotiate the release of the war bands, but he says it doesn't look good. He didn't want us to send anyone else to interfere with it. Azriel… If she managed to bring down _Cassian_, I think there's a good chance she'd have simply taken you both, if you had been there."

"I'd have died first," Azriel said morosely. "Or at least been with him."

Mor snapped right back, "Right, and remind me how that would help our current situation in any way? Because I don't see it."

"Mor, it was…" Azriel swallowed. "It was supposed to be me."

"What?" She sat back, genuinely baffled. Something crinkled and she lifted her hand to discover some sort of silver wrapping, like paper from an old present, was stuck to her. She shook it off, frowning, wondering what exactly Azriel would want to keep a bit of shiny paper for.

"It was supposed to be_ me _that went Under the Mountain_._ I went to see Lucien Vanserra myself, to help him with the riddles. I'd had… visions, of being taken down by Amarantha's soldiers-"

"And you didn't think to _tell us about them?_"

"No," He replied, flat but honest. "I didn't think you'd let me go, not if you knew I expected to be captured."

Mor chewed on her lower lip, thinking. "I probably wouldn't have. Cas would have you clapped in irons before he'd let you walk into that hell. Amren might have done worse than that."

"In the visions, I always lost," Azriel said softly. "Always. In the end I went down, one way or another, and I ended up chained to her throne. It was supposed to be _me chained to the throne, Mor._ But if I did that, it also meant we could beat her, finally beat her and free all of Prythian. When Lucien sent us that letter with the riddle, I knew _immediately_ that it was me. But I got it wrong, somehow. My visions got Cas and I mixed up, or thought everything that happened to one of us happened to both, or... I got it so wrong. I didn't know it was him, and now-" He dropped his face down into the space of his arms and legs. She heard a strange, half-animal wail come from him, a sound that was deafeningly loud in the dark room. Mor simply leaned forward and threw her arms around him.

The High Lord's much-feared shadowsinger, death incarnate and terror on wings, was... crying. He made those odd wailing noises while he cried, as though he'd never really learned how to do it properly, and she held him as his shoulders shook. She let her fingers run through his hair, gently stroking, making incoherent shushing sounds and pretending she could not hear the gasping, wailing, honestly disturbing sniffling sound of him attempting to get his tears, and breathing, back under control.

"I miss him," Az said hoarsely. "I miss him. My Cas- mine- my brother my friend I _m-miss him-_"

"Ssshhh, I know, love, I know." She simply held him as he sobbed.

Some unknown amount of time later, Azriel's shoulders finally stopped shaking. He sniffed, once more, and lifted his head again. She saw that though his eyes were red-rimmed and his face was damp with tear tracks, that hideous fury had not faded, even a little. His expression was back to its usual calm nothing. Mor held his face in her hands and leaned forward, slowly, and kissed his forehead.

Azriel's eyes slowly closed and he shifted, just slightly, as though he would lean into her touch.

Mor backed up, trying on her most reassuring smile. If he noticed, his expression didn't change. "Your visions aren't always clear," She said, in something close to a whisper. "You should have told us."

"Well, I didn't. Now he's gone."

"He is not _gone_," Mor insisted. "Just… missing. We know where he is!"

"It's been fifty _years_ for Rhys. Cas had only been there six months and the twins say he barely holds himself togetger. Cas can't take decades of that. He's- he's just not as strong as Rhys is. Don't tell Rhys I ever called him strong, though, he'll never let me hear the end of it. How do we rescue him?" Azriel looked at her. In the dim light that came in through the open door, Mor thought he was perhaps the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and wondered at her total inability to love him. At least, not the way he wanted.

"I have Nuala and Cerridwen watching for any hint of opportunity, but she keeps him close. At the throne during court, and in her bedroom when she's not there, down in the prisons sometimes. And her bedroom… is warded against anyone entering she doesn't actively want there. Cerridwen tried to sneak through the wards but they're airtight. But there is one thing."

"At least he's with Rhys," Azriel said softly. All trace of his tears was now totally gone. The shadows hung around his shoulders, like a friend holding him close.

"And Tamlin," Mor said thoughtfully.

"Right," Azriel said, and Mor smiled at the slight bit of wry humor in his tone. "The High Lord of Spring. Rhys's longest-standing enemy and apparently newest lover. Reassuring."

"Allies are allies in desperate times, Az," Mor said, wagging a finger at him. "Nuala swears up and down Tamlin's a different man, and plus, we just got-."

"Who _wouldn't_ be? Lucien was white as a ghost after what happened with Eris. Said Tamlin looks like he's lost every fight with her and stopped getting back up again." He hesitated. "Lucien said Tamlin _always_ gets back up again. But he loses every fight."

"Right." Mor frowned, thoughtfully. "One sympathizes. But he's _there_. Rhys, and Tamlin... those are people Cassian knows don't want to hurt him. In that crowd of monsters, that's no small thing. As for Lucien… the High Lord of Spring's best friend is our only hope right now. So let's go downstairs-"

"I tried to go Under the Mountain again," Azriel said quietly. "It, um... it didn't work. I had to come back."

"Good. If she knew who you were, she'd stop at nothing to get you down there with Cas and Rhys," Mor said fiercely. "She'd stop at _nothing. _Do you understand?"

"I know," Azriel muttered.

"Do you, though? Really? Have you ever seen her when she sees something she wants?"

Azriel, eyebrows furrowed, slowly shook his head.

"Well, I _have _seen her. During the war." Mor's eyes were far away, thinking of old battles, of the rivers of dead Hybern's best general had left in a path behind her, when she was cold, and calculating, and a creature of rage instead of madness. "I saw her leave bodies by the hundreds in her wake, just to get ownership of a scrap of rock with nothing left but some rubble. She tried to _buy _a shadowsinger from my father once, as though he were a puppy for sale. She tried to buy _Tamlin_ from his father, did you know that?"

"No," Azriel said, looking at her.

"She did. When Tamlin first said no, she tried to_ buy him_. Tamlin's father kicked her out of the Spring Court until she came limping back to apologize with all sorts of apology presents, it was disgusting. Their friendship only barely recovered, and Tamlin never forgave his father, not really, for letting her back to court. Every court lit up with gossip about it. I remember... Rhys's sister was _livid_ when she heard about it. They were friends back then. And if she got you... having her very own shadowsinger would be a hell of a coup, if she could get you bent to her will. And she_ would_ try. Even if she couldn't… Rhys would destroy himself to keep her off of you, would personally enslave every human or Illyrian at her command. Right now she can't really _wield _him very well. If you were put in harm's way… there's _nothing_ he wouldn't do for you two. No part of the world he would not burn to the ground and remake for her, if it would save you and Cas a moment of pain at her hands. And we'd really be screwed, then, wouldn't we?"

"We're pretty screwed now," Azriel pointed out. He began, finally, to unfold himself, and Mor felt a small thrill of victory she tried not to let on about.

"Always darkest before the dawn?" Mor said, in a tone that suggested she didn't even believe that herself. She sighed, and stood up, offering him her hand. After a hesitation, he placed his cold hand in hers and stood himself, looking around the mess of his room. "I shouldn't let you use magic to clean this," Mor said, but there was a smile in her voice. "I should make you pick up every piece yourself."

"I figured better to… feel this… in the dark, with my own things, than out where anyone could see me," Azriel said softly.

"You can let _us_ see you," Mor smiled over her shoulder at him, gently leading him out of the room. Her stomach twisted with guilt as she made her smile a little softer, a little sweeter, to try and coax him out. She hated using the feelings she knew he had like this, but he'd been in the dark for so long. He couldn't just… stay there. Besides, she needed him downstairs.

"So what do we do now?" Azriel asked, looking at her with that implacable, empty face. He had buried the rage, for now, although she could still see it simmering under the surface. "What do we do, Mor?"

"I don't know," She admitted, uneasily, as she led him out into the hallway. He blinked at the sudden brightness of the light. She let her hand drop once he was out, walking ahead. He fell in behind her. She'd have to ask him to take a bath before he left the house, she thought to herself. He looked awful. Still painfully beautiful. But awful.

"I spoke to Amren," She continued as they walked. "We've been talking since you went into your room. Amren's pretty wrapped up in trying to get everything under control as Rhys's Second-in-Command now that the Illyrian war bands are disappearing. But… we talked."

"What did you decide?" Azriel asked, his voice devoid of emotion, which was actually reassuring. That was his normal voice. Mor never, ever wanted to hear him cry again. Ever.

"That one day we're going to personally pull out all her fingernails and toenails and make her eat them," Mor replied breezily, bringing him down the stairs and into the sitting room, with its comfortable couches designed specifically to adapt to Illyrian wings, and cushions and pillows on the floor.

"I'll sign on to that plan," Azriel murmured. The shadows seemed to dance around him now, as if what Mor had done had cheered them up, too.

"But the reason I decided to get you out of your room… we received a message. And, um, a guest."

Amren was sitting on one of the couches, lounging back, drinking a glass of a thick red liquid as though it were the finest wine, leaning in towards the person next to her in a way that Mor recognized as blatantly flirtatious. She raised an eyebrow and waved.

As for the target of her attentions, who was sitting nervously next to her…

"Hey," Lucien said casually, holding up his own glass of white wine. There was a moment of silence where his metal eye whirred.

Azriel turned slowly to Mor. "You brought him to _Velaris?_"

Mor smiled, putting her hands up in the air. "Surprise?"

The sword at Lucien's side sang, _The pretty angel looks like shit._


	30. Chapter 30

"You're supposed to be in the Autumn Court," Azriel said, staring at Lucien as though he were some sort of incredibly well-traveled ghost.

"I know," Lucien said, and shrugged, gently scooting himself away from Amren, who immediately scooted closer, her smile only widening, something that was less flirtatious at this point than it was predatory. "I… never made it there. Are you all right? Your eyes look-"

"I am fine. Why didn't you make it there?"

_Because he was afraid, and by the time I talked him into it, the other one got a letter to him._

There was a beat of silence, and then Mor said out loud, "That damn sword talked again, didn't it?"

"It said-" Amren started.

"Why is it that I am the _only person_ who cannot hear it?" Mor asked no one in particular, glaring at the sword at Lucien's hip as though it would burst into flames if she were just angry at it for long enough.

Amren gave her a smile of consummate sweetness. "I can hear it because it's part of the family."

"It's _what?_"

"Think of it this way. What created this sword and I are... distant relatives." Amren shrugged."So I can hear it fine. Basically, it just told Azriel about the letter."

Mor turned her eyes on Lucien, who scooted slightly away from Amren again. "I can hear it because it… chose me." The auburn-haired man winced. "Or I chose it. I'm not sure which."

_I'm definitely the one who chose you, _the sword murmured smugly. _Once_ _I saw you with the Spirit of the Glass, I knew it was a good choice._

Lucien furiously blushed. Azriel actually smiled, a there-and-gone hint of an expression. When Mor and Amren looked curiously at him, he only shook his head. "That's Lucien's story to tell, not mine. The sword is made of shadows, somehow. I… know shadows. What letter?"

"From Under the Mountain," Lucien said, leaning forward, looking up at Azriel. "I guess your friend down there made friends with one of the guards."

"Rhys made friends?" Azriel frowned. "That doesn't seem like something he would be able to do at this point." At Amren's snort of laughter, he rolled his eyes. "I meant with Amarantha's guards. Not... in general."

"No," Mor said brightly, "He's pretty bad at making friends in general, too."

"Not _Rhys_," Lucien said, a hand up over his face. "Your friend Cassian did."

"That's even less believable than _Rhys_!" But… it wasn't, was it? If the guards were pulled from the soldier ranks, he could see it. If there was anything a career fighting fae would be insulted by…

_The guard is angry. He saw Illyrians fight in the war, was injured back then and saved by an Illyrian legion, and resents that your false queen treats an admired general like a pet. _Amren reached out and laid a hand on the hilt of the sword, even as Lucien looked so distinctly uncomfortable that even Azriel wanted to laugh.

"Oh, it's not_ him_ she wants at all," Mor murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

"Do they know who he is?" If she had found out…

"No. The Illyrians, to a man, have all given the same lie. Even under torture, they've kept to it. Amarantha seems certain they must be telling the truth. They're strong as hell." Lucien smiled, just a little. "Apparently Amarantha's guards admire that, too. Strength in arms."

"So Cas made a friend. Huh." The first good news he'd heard in weeks. Although it wasn't easy to hear good news when he'd locked himself up in the dark… "And that guard got a letter out? From him?"

"Not exactly," Lucien said, then looked at Amren, who was idly running her hand over the top of the sword's hilt. "Would you like me to just unbuckle the sword from my belt so you two can have some alone time?"

"Oh, would you?" Amren batted her eyelashes.

Lucien snorted. "No. It's my sword."

_You're just mad because you love me._

"No I do _not," _Lucien snapped.

When Mor sighed and looked over to Azriel with eyebrows raised, the Illyrian warrior simply shrugged. "Lucien has a mating bond with the sword. Amren _wants_ the sword. Potentially carnally, which I refuse to try and understand and _Amren don't you dare start to explain it, close your mouth right now_. Lucien, because the sword's his mate, is jealous."

It was Mor's turn to burst out laughing.

"I am not!" Lucien protested. "We're not mates! Or… not exactly, it's not the same."

"So let me see your sword," Amren said. "I'll ask nicely. I'll say please."

"By the Mother-" Lucien unsheathed the sword, and an achingly beautiful harmonized note echoed through the air, a single note that was also a symphony.

Mor heard in it a lover's song, a lilting female voice, the idea of a woman's lips on hers, a hint of golden-brown hair on a pillow. Azriel heard the whisper of his true mother's voice, the sound of her goodbyes as she left every week. Lucien heard a younger Eris, teaching him his letters using an old rhyming song, before their father had noticed the affection eldest had for youngest and set out to destroy it.

What Amren heard is better left unsaid.

Lucien snapped, "Take it. May you get married and have a thousand horrifying monster children." He got up off the couch, leaving the sword behind, to Amren's obvious delight as she picked it up.

_Don't be mad, blood-mate. I still sing for you, _the sword whispered, lovingly. Lucien ignored it, although Azriel could have sworn he was trying not to smile.

Instead, he turned to look at Mor and the shadowsinger. "Amarantha has Cassian held in a cell in her dungeon, when he's not at her throne or in-... her bedroom by the Cauldron Azriel I'm _sorry_," He said, stepping back slightly and blanching at the expression on Azriel's face, the way his wings suddenly bristled, threateningly.

Mor put a hand on Azriel's arm and he took a deep breath, trying to force his shoulders to relax.

"There's a guard in there that hates Amarantha as much as we do," Lucien continued, but kept a safe distance from Azriel now. "At least one, probably more, but... only one your friend trusts. He and Cassian have become... friendly. Tamlin has an idea to get him out, and this guard agreed to help, said he could smuggle out from letters if he gave him one. There's no access to paper or pen in the prison, but..."

"Tamlin and Rhys have access," Azriel guessed. Lucien nodded. "So… what's in the letter?"

Lucien opened the jacket he was wearing, and took out a folded-up piece of paper, opening it up. Azriel moved forward quickly, and frowned when he looked at it. "That's not Cas's handwriting."

"It's not." Lucien took a deep breath, and put his hands out in the universal 'don't be mad' gesture. "Cassian is no longer allowed to read or write since he went Under the Mountain. She says Illyrians don't need to."

Azriel turned slowly to look at Mor. "She _what_?_" _The shadows that wreathed him thickened, nearly obfuscating him entirely, and they were in his eyes and curving around his face as well as his hands, his wings. Shadows clung just under his high cheekbones, making them hollow, ran along his bones. With his eyes still red-rimmed, he looked like nothing so much as death itself; vengeful, wrathful death.

"Right, so he's scary," Lucien muttered.

_On the contrary, this is the prettiest version of the angel yet._

Azriel fought to calm himself, to calm the drumbeat of anger within him. In the tenuous thread that connected him to Cas, the shield over Velaris itself, he could feel the other man asleep, if just barely, on a cool tile floor. Could almost hear _her voice _in the background. He wondered what his dreams looked like down there. "This is a secret letter, though. Why couldn't he just-"

"When I say not allowed... he's not able to. I don't know how. The guard my... contact is communicating with says they think something in his water. He can't read or write any longer."

Azriel frowned at the letter. "This was written by Tamlin?"

"Yes. Amarantha seems suspicious of Rhys, so he's been careful. Tamlin wrote the letter and got it to Cassian, who handed it to the guard, who made sure it made it to one of the spies I keep Under the Mountain for the Spring Court." At Mor's shocked expression, Lucien snorted. "What, _you're_ the only one allowed to have spies? I convinced Tamlin to have spies put in place in every court within a year of coming to stay with him. Even yours."

"Who?" Mor was scandalized that she had never realized. Not so much that the spies existed, that was a basic assumption in Prythian, but the realization that she had no idea who they were. "Who do you keep at our court?"

Lucien gave her a half-cocked grin. "You aren't the only people on Prythian who can keep secrets. I mean, _Tamlin sure can't_, but that's why I'm his second-in-command. Do you think he'd be half so competent without me?"

"I see why Tamlin likes him so much," Amren said to the sword.

"It's really your humility we're growing to love, Lucien," Mor said with a smile in her voice.

_I like him, too_, the sword murmured.

This time, Lucien was definitely smiling as he pointedly ignored it. "It's the first _real_ letter Tamlin's been able to get out using the spy. Amarantha has always been careful, but she seems to be confident at this point in her victory and isn't watching him as closely, especially since… she…" He pressed his lips together.

"She what?" That was Mor.

"She had your lord fuck up his mind," Lucien said, in not quite a growl. "A while back. Knock things around in there, build a whole new brain, whatever it is you do. Ever since Rhys did that, he's… faded. Fights less."

"_We_ don't do that," Azriel said, in a tone of careful warning. "Daemati do."

"Which is what Rhysand is," Lucien said, eyes narrowed. "What she uses him for."

"He doesn't _want_ to-"

"I know that," Lucien grunted. "In any case, Tamlin can't… talk about escape. Or even think about it. For he _or_ Rhysand. The spy said Amarantha tried to force him to once, just to see what would happen, just for_ fun_, and he just… went away. Stopped responding. Rhysand had to bring him back out. Apparently it was a… difficult process."

Mor leaned over, touching Azriel's arm lightly. "You see what I mean? He'd do anything for us. _Actually anything. _Even _that_, to an innocent man."

Azriel snorted. "Tamlin's not exactly innocent."

"Hey," Lucien snapped. "He's not perfect, and I realize there's unhappy history here, but he doesn't deserve to be _brainwashed_. I know you don't like him, but he's… not who he was, when he went under."

"I'm just concerned that perhaps he's changed too much," Azriel said coldly.

"No, you're dying inside worrying about your friend and you've decided it's time to take it out on me because I'm not from here, and those two women would beat you senseless for trying it on them."

Azriel stared blankly at him. Mor whistled. "Sure _you're_ not daemati, Lucien?"

"I don't have to be. I'm worried about my friend, too. I get it, but I came to help you, and I don't have to."

"Allies," Mor said warningly, squeezing Azriel's arm.

"Fair. "Azriel took a deep breath, calmed himself down as best he could. "My apologies. I'm not used to... feeling so much. So how did he write a letter to us?"

"Because," Lucien said, some of his tension and anger dissipating, "_he's_ not going to try and escape. He must be not even _thinking_ of it somehow. He's only going to get _Cassian_ out of there."

Hope. More frightening, for Azriel, than pain ever had been. "How?" Azriel barely felt himself speak.

"He doesn't say. Read the letter, you'll see."

Azriel looked back down at the paper in his hand, at Tamlin's hurried, unfamiliar handwriting.

_Going to get him out. Make a visit Under the Mountain, tell me when first. Can get him to you through western tunnels that head towards Winter. You'll need to meet me at the door. Need time first. Send word same way it came to you._

_Hurry._

"Does he always write like that?" Azriel wrinkled his nose.

Lucien rolled his eyes. "Why do you think I volunteered to take on writing most of his correspondence?"

"Why the _western_ tunnels, I wonder," Azriel mused, reading and re-reading the short note.

Hope. Great and terrible hope.

"The western tunnels are the closest to the torture chambers," Lucien said quietly. "It's the only place she keeps him where Tamlin and that guard he's befriended could easily get him out without being seen."

Azriel's wings flared slightly, but settled.

"Do you see why I wanted you to come out of the dark?" Mor asked, touching his shoulder lightly. "I came to get you because we have a chance, now, to save him." Azriel turned to look at her, wondering if five centuries of longing was too obvious in his eyes.

When she looked away from him, he supposed that gave him all the answer he needed.

"Well, I'm out of the dark. I'm here. Let's get Cas out of there."

_First, pretty angel, take a damn bath. _

Amren didn't quite hold back her laughter. Neither did Lucien. When Amren explained to Mor what the sword had said, her laughter rang through the room as well.

Even Azriel smiled.

A little.


	31. Chapter 31

However many months it had been into his captivity - he couldn't tell, in a place where there was no sun or stars or sky - Cassian was beginning to feel himself fraying, and it didn't help that none of them would leave him the hell alone.

"I've always wanted to touch one of you." The woman looking him over, one of the Hybernian mess that seemed to have simply followed Amarantha here once that terrible party had resulted in the curse they all were under, had that same oddly predatory expression it seemed everyone learned from birth in Hybern.

As though there had been empathy, once, but it had been burned out and replaced by a fathomless cruelty fed only by their endless, idle curiosity.

"We don't have Illyrians, you know," She continued, stirring her drink, when he did not answer her. "Nothing but sand and rock and sea. Nothing fun at all."

Cassian was busy trying to get into a more comfortable position, and found himself wishing Amarantha would come back. When she was on her throne, no one came anywhere near him any longer. Now, though, with Amarantha off having a... meeting or whatever it was she did, he was trapped by himself.

_Wishing for the horrifying evil rape queen to come back is probably not a good sign either, Cas. You are losing your mind here. Even if Shuffle-Step did end up being a decent soldier and helps you pass the time..._

He was trapped, and fending off curious Hybernians who seemed to think he was an entertaining spectacle.

"You don't exist where I come from either," He hissed, "But you'll find I know to leave_ you _well enough alone."

She tilted her head. She would have been pretty, except for that Hybernian cruelty. The lines of her face leaned towards the hard, rather than soft and feminine, but her eyes were large, and a lovely shade of brown, deep as the darkest forest. Her mouth was wide and had a hint of a smile. Her brown hair was braided elaborately, in a kind of imitation of the way Amarantha loved to have her own hair done. Her gown was severe and modest, and it stood out in a court of decadence and a kind of dark, soulless sensuality.

"Are you a person?" She asked, in a high, lilting voice.

"Am I a-... what the fuck do you _think_ I am?" He yanked as hard as he could on the chains that held him to the floor, for probably the seventh time tonight. Like every other time, nothing happened. But he was starting to pull a muscle in his arm a little worse each time he tried.

She smiled, a slowly building expression that became an ugly sneer. She could have been Amarantha's cousin. "I think you're amusing, and pretty," She replied. "And I think Amarantha isn't here right now. Are you going to bite, again?"

Cassian looked up at her. The cuffs kept him tired, so damn tired. He could barely walk from the prisons, or from her room, up here each day. And all the energy it took to fight them, their endless grasping hands, was even worse. "Depends on where you're looking to feel some teeth," He said, not quite angrily but not far.

"Oooh, wouldn't that be a scandal," She murmured, her eyes alight. "Can you _imagine?_"

"Yes," Cassian said softly, looking up at her again. "I absolutely can." He'd been down here for… he wasn't sure how long, but it had to have been a while. At a certain point even the curves of the prison bars become attractive.

_Azriel would kill himself laughing if he heard me thinking like that. Or maybe not. __Az is a red-blooded male, too, whether or not he admits it. He'd laugh, but he'd be just the same if it were him. _

Her smile… changed, a little. Some of the cruelty left her, and the way she tilted her head was a little different, too. Her eyes on his seemed suddenly warmer. "With an Illyrian dog?" She said thoughtfully. "There's a thought. My father would have a _fit._"

"Then we'd just have to make it worth the cost," Cassian replied, putting a slight smile on his face. He'd never pretended his methods were subtle, but you didn't always have to stab someone to get what you want. At least, not right away.

She laughed, still holding her glass, twisting a bit of hair around one finger. "You're just trying to get me to take those chains off."

"Yes," He said, making his voice soft. "But I promise I could make it worth your while if you did."

_For about thirty seconds, until I kill you. And then everyone here, literally everyone. Even that boy in the corner who has done nothing but write terrible poetry all night. I'd kill him, too. If only for making me listen to it earlier. What the fuck does he think I know about poetry?_

She laughed again, reached out towards him, and ran her fingertips along the top edge of his wings, the heavy, hollowed bones underneath the warm membranous skin. Cassian shuddered, only half in disgust.

"Please don't do that," he muttered. "Ever again. You all know I hate it."

"I don't really think you do," She pointed out, pouting just a bit. "I think you hate that you like it." She smirked as she pressed her fingers into a spot where the skin was thinnest, the nerves closest to the surface, circling a little with one finger. Cas couldn't quite help the sound he made in the back of his throat or the way the muscles in his back shifted, even as he closed his eyes as tightly as possible and tried, one more time, to pull himself free.

He tried to think of a face, the only person he would have wanted touching him like this, to at least try and get himself away mentally if he couldn't escape physically. She laughed, deep in her throat, and let them graze up to the spot where they met the skin of his back. More circles. He'd go mad. He wanted her to stop. He wanted her to never, ever stop.

He wanted her fingers to belong to someone else entirely, to the face he kept inside his mind, and then to never, ever stop.

_I've wanted to tell you for so long, I-_

"Please," He whispered. "Don't do that."

"No," She said softly. "I've heard what they say about Illyrians." Those fingertips trailed back up along the inside again, fingernails scraping just the barest little bit. "I want to see if you lose yourself right here in front of everyone. I'm not going to stop until you-"

"You'll step away from Amarantha's prisoner _now_," A familiar voice said, surprisingly strong. The woman turned and backed slightly away, a hand up to her chest in surprise.

"High Lord," the woman muttered, inclining her head towards Tamlin in greeting. "Here I thought you'd be nipping at Amarantha's heels… or perhaps using that mouth for something else entirely."

Tamlin snorted. He was standing next to his own throne, nearby, wearing his usual black pants and shirt with the silvery embroidery that only showed under certain lights. He walked over slowly, seeming larger and somehow more _present _than he had in all the time Cas had been trapped here. There was a hint of something feral in his expression, a predator's threat. Those green eyes blazed, above a bruise on one cheek and those strange spiral scars on the other, locked on hers. "I'm on break from using my mouth," He said, wryly, and Cas could have laughed at how much like Rhys he sounded. "Maybe if I'm very well behaved tonight I'll get to use it again. What _have_ you heard about Illyrians, exactly?" Tamlin's voice was low. A warning.

Cas looked up, looking back and forth between them. Part of him wanted to tell Tamlin to just stop, not to worry about it, not to get himself hurt. Amarantha would be back any second, and even if she didn't like people touching her captive Illyrian general, she hated Tamlin showing a backbone even more. That much had become clear, from his vantage spot next to their thrones.

"I've _heard_ that they are barbaric animals led by the only place their blood really pools," The Hybernian lady said smoothly, crossing her arms just under her breasts, watching Tamlin with a patronizing disgust that didn't seem to bother the High Lord of Spring at all these days. "You know, their... wings."

"Ah, well, the rumors of barbaric animals in Amarantha's court _are_ true," Tamlin replied, slowly placing himself between her and Cas. There was a shimmer along his skin, his remaining power making itself known. "Turns out she brought a pile of brainless rutting beasts with her from Hybern. And we sure know where_ your_ blood pools when speaking to _an Illyrian dog_, hm?"

The courtier's head rose and she glared at Tamlin, chin held haughtily high. "How_ dare_ you. I descend from a line that has been noble since the earliest days of Hybern's existence. What do you care about him? It's not like he's High Fae. He's only Illyrian. And_ you're_ only Amarantha's whore. Not even that - you're her _whore's_ whore." She spat the words, fingers clenching on her wineglass.

"I'm a damn good whore these days, too," Tamlin said with a bitter laugh. Cas could smell something green in the air around him as he moved closer. "I get enough practice, at least. Unfortunately, for all your insults and your lizard's tongue, you are only _you_, my lady. And that is so. much. less. than a whore." His eyes narrowed, and he put one hand up. "Now get away from him." There was a pressure, a _push_, of air, that had the woman stumble back slightly. "And don't touch him again."

"How _dare_ you," The woman hissed, and threw her drink. It hit Cas in the head, splattering him with that heavy spiced wine, the glass rolling away on the floor. Despite himself, Cas licked a little wine off his hand, just to have a taste in his mouth that wasn't the metallic water he was forced to drink. "How _dare_ you speak to me this way!"

"Lie down with _dogs_," Tamlin said, mildly, but with a hard edge to his voice, "and be prepared for attack by the fleas. Get. Out. Of. This. Room. _Now_." He moved his hand, only slightly, and that _push _of air sent her stumbling back again.

The Hybernian courtier's face darkened with rage. "I will not be spoken to like this by the likes of _you. _The lesser whore_._"

Tamlin snorted. "Rhys will be flattered you think he's the better one. I'll pass that along to him. Get out or I'll _get_ you out."

Her eyes were angry slits. "How do you intend to make me? Would you hit a noble lady, whore?"

Tamlin actually laughed. "What, suddenly you think a _whore_ has a line of decency he won't cross? All my dignity left a long time ago. I'll give you one last chance."

She glared daggers at him. "Go suck the Night Lord's cock."

"Give me a couple of hours on that one." Tamlin, his smile brilliant, punched her right across the face. Cassian _heard _the crunch of her nose breaking, and looked up, eyes wide, at a version of Tamlin he didn't know still existed.

The Spring Lord's skin had a glow to it around the edges, a greenish light. His eyes were glowing green in his pale face, and his scars seemed to stand out somehow more than ever, lit up from within. There was nearly a halo of light around his yellow-gold hair, the sun rising on a new season, a new world, shining through leaves. The scent of him had deepened, become the smell of soil and green leaves, wisteria climbing trees, with something altogether wilder and more animal underneath.

The High Lord of Spring grinned at the lady's Hybernian friends appeared seemingly like magic. Someone pulled the noble lady back, hands over her bleeding nose, and Tamlin's smile only widened and they approached him. "Five on one? I'm so sorry, that is just_ terrible_ odds for you."

"How dare you lay hands on a woman of nobility!" One of the Hybernians snarled at him.

Tamlin barked a laugh. "Trust me, I'll regret this later. It's been a while since someone gave me a reason to do this, though, so I'm going to enjoy it now." He swung at the closest male, who looked enough like the woman to be a brother or cousin. The brother/cousin took the hit and snarled, punching back, and Cas watched his fist connect with Tamlin's stomach. Tamlin just... shook it off and went back for more.

_And here we thought he'd gone weak, _Cas thought, genuinely impressed as Tamlin landed a good right hook into a male's jaw, sending him spinning into the floor. Tamlin took a hit to his own face but only laughed, barely even noticing. _Did we not see this __because we were so busy hating him and pretending he was useless?_

"What is going on here?" Amarantha's voice, first shocked, and then furious. "Tamlin. No."

Tamlin, bloody fist still up for his next hit, froze where he stood. The glow of him seemed to dim, all at once, as he turned around to face her.

"Your Majesty." He dropped to his knees, not even waiting for a command, and lowered himself until his forehead touched the floor. The Hybernian court laughed in response, but there was a hysterical edge of relief to the sound. Cas felt his stomach flip, sick at watching a High Lord kneel like a commoner or mortal slave.

But he caught a flicker of movement in Tamlin's hand, and looked. One, two, three fingers, then curled into a fist. Cas fought back a smile. _The fear was an act. _

"My Queen," the Hybernian courtier burbled, her hands pressed over her nose, where Cas could see blood over her mouth and chin. "Your whore _attacked me, _utterly unprovoked! And then my brother!"

_Ah, brother then._

Amarantha, arms crossed, raised a single eyebrow. "Tamlin, my love?"

Tamlin did not look up. His voice, when he spoke, was meek, utterly unlike the blazing, protective strength he'd had before she walked into the room. "She was _molesting _your captive, your Majesty. Which I remember you _expressly_ ordering against."

"I wasn't doing any such thing-"

"Shut up," Amarantha said dismissively, and the courtier's mouth snapped shut. "We both know you_ and_ your brother have been eyeing him like dessert at Solstice for days." She waved one hand. "Get her out of here and healed up. I'll speak with you about it later and we'll work out a recompense." The Hybernian court escorted her away, still complaining, but hushed now. Her brother's face was bright red with embarrassment as he followed. Amarantha walked towards Tamlin, taking her time, her hips swaying, one slow step after another. "Oh, Tamlin, my love. You just can't stop fucking up, can you?"

"Clearly not," Tamlin replied, voice slightly husky. "Not when you make the punishment so much fun." He pushed himself up, until he was sitting back on his knees, looking up at her. She smiled down at him, and even her smile was obscene.

_By the Cauldron, _Cas thought with another swell of nausea, fighting back the need to retch. _This is flirting for them. This is disgusting. Why is he acting like this? He hates her._ Then he looked behind her, eyebrows furrowing slightly. _Wait. Where's Rys?_

The military commander in him, the general who could draft out complicated battle plans (or could, before she'd stolen his ability to read) caught up with the exhausted prisoner and his eyes widened. It didn't make this any less disgusting, but... _Anywhere else. That's where Rhys is. Anywhere where he can't be implicated. Because this way, watching him be humiliated, no one thinks Tamlin can do anything. Rhys is totally uninvolved, nowhere near me, a complete stranger to him. And Tamlin's making sure Amarantha's focus isn't on me, either._

Amarantha leaned over when she made it to Tamlin, running her fingers through his hair. He smiled up at her, a smile full of hatred and loathing and, yes, desire. _How corrupting is it, to be trapped down here with no sky to escape to? Hasn't even been two years for him yet. How long does it take to be so good at looking like you want her? Does it become actual want, in the end? _

"Mmmn." Amarantha only watched him, for a long moment, and Cas felt like a voyeur. Like they were the only two people in the world, and he was spying on the world's grossest courtship display. "I'll have to come up with something new."

"Can't wait," Tamlin said in a husky whisper.

_I can't tell if I admire him or pity him or both. _

Amarantha smirked, offering her hand. Tamlin took it and stood, slowly, pressing himself against her as he did, their eyes locked. _Definitely pity. _Those empty eyes, that empty smile - how could Amarantha find that even a little bit attractive? Cas would have hated to see a female look at him like that, with such clear loathing of him, forcing it behind a facade of wanting. To have someone in his bed who was only there because they'd given up trying to fight.

He would have felt like the lowest slug on earth. And probably put himself in prison.

Amarantha purred with delight, sliding an arm up behind his neck, pulling his head down for a kiss. There were grumblings of disgust from the assembled court, but no one wanted to be loud enough that Amarantha would know who had made them. When she came up for air, she laughed, and spun around, walking away from him, leaving Tamlin vaguely flushed, his hands opening and closing as though he weren't sure what to do with them.

No, wait- his right hand was sending that message again, the one only Cas could see, with the way Tamlin was standing. One, two, three fingers, then back into a fist. _Three days._

Cas could wait three days. That was nothing compared to what he'd been forced into so far.

"Take him to my room," Amarantha said to the Attor, who hovered just nearby as always.

"How shall I _prepare_ him, my Queen?" The Attor's slithering, sand-swept, disembodied voice whispered with smug, horrible good humor.

Real loathing and fear flickered across Tamlin's face this time. Cas hoped he didn't regret what he'd just done.

"Don't worry about that," Amarantha said, dismissively. "I have some court petitions to hear and take care of, and then I will take my sweet time with my Tamlin. We don't want to get started on the punishment before I'm there to _really _see it through, hm?"

"Will Rhys be there?" Tamlin asked, and then winced, as if realizing he shouldn't have said anything. Cas could only stare, in outright admiration at this point. _Where the fuck had Tamlin, High Lord of Spring and Arrogant Prick Extraordinaire, learned to put on such a good act? _

Although the answer was obvious, when he thought about it. Rhys had taught him.

Amarantha watched him, calculating, and then laughed, long and loud, as much for the benefit of the assembled crowd as for him. "No, my love, I don't think he will. You _enjoy it too much _when our Rhys is there with you, hm?" She waved her hand at the Attor. "Take him."

The Attor seemed to float up to Tamlin, grabbing him by one arm, pulling him away. Tamlin stumbled, a look of worry on his face. One more time as he was led away, Cassian watched his hand flash one, two, three.

_Three days._

Three days, and they'd get out of here. He'd have to tell Shuffle-Step when he got back to the prisons tonight. See if he had any more messages from home. Letting him be guarded by career military males, the fae who truly knew what it meant to have a general who would suffer alongside them, was the worst mistake Amarantha had made yet.

Cassian stretched his wings, just a bit, and settled himself in to wait.

* * *

When Rhys entered court, hours later, pretending to be shocked and furious at the risk Tamlin had taken, he and Cas only met eyes briefly. Every time they looked at each other the guilt, the shame, in Rhys's face was impossible to meet for long. Cas could do nothing to reassure him here.

This time, when their eyes met, there was a flare in Rhys's that Cas knew very well, after centuries spent together. The old Rhys, someone who was never without a plan or at least the willingness to throw himself dramatically at a problem and hope that alone would somehow solve it.

There was a flash of smile, for Cas alone, something unnoticed by the larger crowd. Cas thought, _Fifty years didn't take you anywhere. You're still in there, brother. You're still our Rhys. You're still with me._

Then he saw Rhys look away, look over his shoulder, down the hallway the Attor had led Tamlin into. He saw the look on Rhys's face change, slide into worry, fear, and…

That final expression - that was one Cas knew, too. Had seen on Rhys, once or twice, over the centuries, although never for very long. Never so intensely. And it would have made him so angry, before he'd been trapped here. Before he'd seen the way Tamlin made Rhys laugh. Watched them, their heads together, talking for hours in some forgotten corner. Seen them together, in Amarantha's bed but only ever looking at each other.

Before he'd seen Rhys put a hand on Tamlin's back, the slightest touch, and lean in to whisper something in his ear, and seen the same expression on Tamlin's face when he replied as Cas saw on Rhys now.

_You romantic asshole. Amren was right. __Only _you_ would get yourself sold to pure evil and find a way to fall in love._


	32. Chapter 32

Three days later, Shuffle-Step had appeared in Cas's cell to set him free, as planned. They couldn't get the cuffs off his neck or wrists, but Shuffle-Step produced that strange key and unlocked the chain from the wall, handing him off to Tamlin, who appeared just outside the prisons to lead him the rest of the way.

"I'm going to get you to the edge of the western tunnels," Tamlin whispered, edging along the dark hallway. "Your people will meet you there." His yellow-gold hair was faded in the dim light, and he was sporting a whole new array of ash cuts and bruises since his punishment from Amarantha for defending Cas. He walked with a pronounced limp right now, but those green eyes, with their flecks of gold, shone bright.

That glow was back in his skin, the smell of new green leaves on trees and blooming flowers, of a herd of deer spotted in a grassy meadow, an undercurrent of fresh earth, thawed after the final frost. It was a smell of renewal, of hope. Tamlin's eyes sparkled as he moved. "I'll have to stop before that, I belong here now, but you keep going."

Cassian only nodded. _I belong here. _Did Rhys feel that way? Or maybe Tamlin was only trying to calm the part of him that could not even think of escape without pain. Cas had heard soldiers say dark things before, to steel themselves when going into battle. If every day was its own battle, maybe the things you say get even darker.

Honestly… he wasn't sure _what _to think of Rhys being in love with his oldest enemy. Nuala and Cerridwen, who had never seen that kind of love in Rhys's eyes before, had, if anything, _understated _exactly how together the two High Lords were. And the things that happened in Amarantha's bed…

No. Nope. Choosing not to think about that, choosing with all the determination he had in his body not to think about the way they looked at each other while she used them. Cas knew as little about it as he could. Rhys usually went into his head and gave him a place to hide from that. Although sometimes it dropped if Rhys got… distracted.

Tamlin put a finger up to his lips, eyes slightly narrowed, watching a fork ahead. After a few seconds, a couple of Winter Court lordlings walked past in their own conversation. Neither turned their head to see the escapees.

He could see, in this moment, how Tamlin was probably an excellent hunter. He seemed to scent the servants and prison guards before Cas, knew where to hide someone who could no longer glamour, was patient and still while waiting for them to pass. He could probably stalk prey for days, letting them wear themselves out while he moved in this same careful, efficient way.

Cassian was glad for Tamlin's slow momentum, too exhausted from the constant drain of power into the shackles he still wore to move quickly. Even so, his heart beat behind the cuff around his neck so hard he was sure someone would hear it.

This is what they'd had to wait for; a night when court did not run into the early morning hours as it usually did, when Amarantha didn't want Tamlin to stay with her, and only asked for Rhys.

Tamlin had taken a risk, pissing off that Hybernian noble lady, but it had paid off. Tamlin had insulted her right in front of the crowd, with enthusiasm Cas hadn't seen him show before, and Amarantha's punishment had been bad enough that Tamlin, after two days in her room without leaving, had been told to take a few nights off to recover.

Shuffle-Step had said they could hear the sounds Tamlin made all the way down the hall, that Tarquin had lodged a formal complaint about it. Cas didn't ask if they were all sounds of pain. That was yet another thing he was choosing not to think about.

With Tamlin officially recovering in their room (_they share a room, this place is a fucking nightmare_), Rhys had managed to get himself ordered to hers, and should be putting in the best performance of his life right now to ensure she didn't notice anything unusual.

Cas wasn't sure how you thanked two men for having themselves thrown into Amarantha's bed, her torture chambers, to find you a time to escape, but buying Tamlin and Rhys a cake or something was probably not enough.

Shuffle-Step had appeared with his nightly cup of water and a note Cas couldn't read, telling him that tonight was the night, that his friends would be waiting for him when Tamlin led him out.

Cas knew very little of the plan. He knew about the notes, and acted as a go-between for Shuffle-Step and Tamlin, but he couldn't_ read them_. That first panicked attempt, staring at letters and words and sentences he should _know_ but which looked like senseless chicken scratches, had left him more frightened than he'd ever admit.

Shuffle-Step had been the one to figure out what happened, that Cassian's water was different than anyone else's. That metal taste hadn't been poison at all. Instead, it had been a spell, designed to make him illiterate, specially developed by Amarantha to ensure he, a prisoner usually chained to the Queen's throne or to the wall in her bedroom, couldn't communicate by writing with anyone. Since he never had a conversation that wasn't monitored in some way, writing would have been the only way to sneak information out.

Except, of course, that he had Shuffle-Step on his side.

He was infinitely grateful for the guard's offer to help, his rage at discovering Amarantha chaining Cas to her throne and letting the Hybernians touch his wings. Thank the Cauldron for the other guards who knew what it meant to serve in the military and who did not like Amarantha's way of throwing him to the wolves. They had made themselves scarce tonight, none of the usual watch in the places they were supposed to be.

Cas currently had the chain attached to his neck wrapped around his own wrist so it wouldn't make any noise that might give them away. He would have to figure out how to get the cuffs off later.

_If_ he could.

But Cas was_ also_ choosing not to think about that.

"Left," Tamlin whispered as they made the fork. Cas nodded and followed him, the stone floor freezing against his bare feet. They'd been heading vaguely upwards, and a sense of direction innate in Illyrians told him they were indeed headed for the Winter Court, too. Lucien had spoken to Kallias, and Tamlin said the Winter Lord had promised the usual guards would not be present at its entrance when they made it there.

His heart continued to pound.

It had only been some months down here and he was nearly insane from the miserable flat darkness. How Rhys had withstood it for half a century was beyond him.

_Rhys is allowed to read. That probably helps pass time._

They passed the Winter Court's chambers here, moving on silent and stealthy feet past door after door. Tamlin had to glamour them both a couple of times, and flat out shoved Cas in a broom closet once, but they made it through unnoticed. Although Kallias was an ally, in his hatred of Amarantha if nothing else, Amarantha's offer to free dissidents and give the High Lords some of their power back was a powerful incentive to refuse to help… or turn them in. It was one thing to order your guards to make themselves scarce - it was another to look right in the face of an escapee and have to actively aid or hinder them.

Sometimes you made hard choices, to prioritize your own people above others. Cas understood that, even if it meant they had to sneak right past the door of the only Lord who knew what they were up to tonight.

"We're about to take two rights," Tamlin murmured, looking around. "After the second right, you'll be on your way out and they should be there to meet us at the door."

"Thank you," Cas whispered, and meant it. "For this. And for…" Tamlin put his hand up and Cas cut himself off. They watched another set of servants going by, frozen, glamoured to invisibility by Tamlin, who at least still had some inkling of his power as High Lord, if not much.

They took the first right. Here, the tunnel straightened out, on a more steady and even uphill slope. After a while, Tamlin took another one. The upward slope became so extreme that Cas found himself struggling, as if hiking up a mountain. Normally this wouldn't even have him out of breath, but these cuffs…

Cas reached out and put a hand on Tamlin's arm, stopping him. "Thank you for Rhys."

Tamlin turned back to look at him, surprised. "What?"

"He's alone down here," Cas said, cutting his eyes to the side, not quite able to look Rhys's oldest enemy in the face. "For… him not being alone, because of you. Thanks."

Tamlin took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. His eyes flicked constantly behind Cas, watching for anyone who might be coming. The look on his face was guarded, defensive. "Look, I don't know what you think about me-"

"It doesn't matter," Cas interrupted, in a low voice. "What_ I _think doesn't matter. I saw him with you. I don't get it, but… I get it, I guess. Just take the thanks."

A smile made its faint way across Tamlin's face, only a hint of the broad grins and annoyingly loud laughter Cassian remembered from when they'd all been younger. It made the tiny scars in their spiral pattern shift slightly. "Yeah, well, I don't get it either, if it helps."

"Aren't you supposed to be the one who _does?_"

"No, I…" Tamlin frowned, hesitating. "I don't think anyone needs to. It just… is." He sighed, looking around them, and then gestured for Cassian to go ahead of him. "None of us is who we once were. Or maybe I'm more who I used to be than I have been in a long time."

"Right," Cassian muttered, moving around him. The air was definitely different, here; fresh and clear and cold. He missed his Siphons and his Illyrian armor, currently on display in the throne room, but he could have another set made. He'd just have to try not to bring down any buildings once he got these cuffs off until he had something to focus his power again.

Cas moved on ahead, struggling to put one foot in front of the other as the unnatural exhaustion weighed him down. Tamlin lingered behind, constantly looking over his shoulder, as they moved closer and closer to the place where Under the Mountain became the Winter Court.

Then, up ahead, he saw it. They came around a bend and he could see the brightening of the light, squinting as his eyes hurt at the reflection of moonlight on white snow that had blown in through the tunnel's open door.

Standing in that open door was Mor. She was an angel out of time, golden hair blowing wildly in the wind that blew flakes of snow into the tunnel, wearing her armor, sword at her side. She was smiling.

At that moment, Tamlin spun around. Cassian couldn't hear anything but the dull thud of his own heart, but Tamlin's face went so white the scars and that red slice across his cheek stood out like they were painted on.. "Shit. She felt you. Run. Make this worth it for us." Tamlin took a deep breath, all that light going out of his eyes, put his shoulders back, and walked, limping, into the darkness they'd just come from with his head high.

A shadow detached itself from the wall and Azriel walked out of it, twin daggers in his hand, hazel eyes blazing in his pale, beautiful face. "Hey, Cas. You're late for curfew."

"Hey," Cas grinned back, feeling every atom in his body leap at seeing Az again. He tried to force himself to run despite the tiredness that dragged down his footsteps. Somehow it was even worse here than it had been in the throne room. "Sorry. I just had the _worst_ bad date."

"Cas," Mor breathed, eyes shining with tears. He made it to her and they hugged, bone-crushingly tight, even as the shouting of their pursuit grew louder. There was the sound of a clash, metal on metal, and Cassian vaguely wondered where the hell Tamlin had found a sword. At least he hoped that was Tamlin... "Cas, we gotta go."

"I know," He whispered, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, brother to sister. "I can't fly right now, Mor. I'm so tired-"

"I'll winnow you," She whispered, tears standing in her eyes. "We'll talk to Lucien after we get back home."

"Lucien is in _Valeris?_"

"Yes. Well, no. Right now he's in the Autumn Court. I'll explain when we get there."

"Mor, Rhys gave the Illyrians up, but Keir… Keir _knew_, he sent me to check on the war bands-"

Mor's face went white as a sheet. "He did what?" There was a beat of silence. "_Rhys did what?!"_

There was the sound of shouting from back down the hall.

"We'll talk at home, we gotta go," She said, and looked over his shoulder. Her eyes went wide. "Az, what are you _doing_?"

Azriel walked past him going the other way, deeper into the tunnel, murder in those bright eyes. "Get him out of here." Azriel's voice was quiet, and yet somehow seemed to echo and bounce around the walls, a promise and not a threat. "I'll be right behind you."

"No!" Mor hissed, and a look passed between the two of them that Cassian didn't understand. "You don't get to do this, I said! You don't go back into the dark!"

Azriel turned to look at her, pausing briefly. His Siphons glowed, magic forming around his daggers, making them sharper and deadlier than any true dagger ever could be. "You need a distraction. You're not going to be able to winnow far, after we just got here. You need time or they'll track you."

"Tamlin can take care of that!"

They heard the unearthly, disembodied laughter of the Attor floating up towards them, a cracking sound and a thump. "Mor," Azriel said, and his voice was softer than ever. "Get him out of here. Now."

An arrow whistled past Azriel's head, only missing by a couple of inches. He didn't flinch, or even seem to notice. The arrow bounced harmlessly off a wall and fell to the floor. "Go," Azriel said, and then walked away. Before he'd gone more than a dozen feet, the darkness had swallowed him whole.

Mor pressed her lips together, staring after him, and then winnowed she and Cas away.

* * *

Azriel was a wonderful and deadly thing.

Where his Siphons gleamed, they died, one after another. The tunnels worked to his advantage, giving him shadows to slide in and out of like he might move through water. They covered him, gave him the advantage.

He stepped out of a shadow, slashed a throat, faded into the next. They fell around him with barely a whisper of protest. There was always a point, in times like these, where he felt almost like this was a kind of dance, a rhythm that he knew but his partners were always three steps behind. Except, of course, that Azriel was actually a_ terrible dancer._

This dance, though… this, he knew.

He could see Tamlin in the dim faelights ahead, fighting with nothing but fists but holding his own, just trying to buy them some time. Even though Azriel could see in only a glance that the blond man was already injured, favoring his left leg, he seemed to simply... ignore it and keep fighting. _Impressive. We always forget he's such a brawler._ Azriel's eyes narrowed, glowing faintly as he stepped out of another shadow. Tamlin took a hit to the face but didn't go down, instead throwing himself at his opponent, knocking him to the floor.

Step out of shadow, slash a throat, fade back in.

He could feel, faintly, through their tenuous connection, Mor winnowing Cas away, further and further, taking jumps to try and conserve her power. Cas was only a presence, a sense of life, everything else about him muted into nothingness by his loss of power.

Azriel hesitated, for just a moment. He waited for the two guards to step up, searching for him in the dark. Azriel took a step, unnoticed behind them, and his Siphon-powered daggers cut their heads nearly off their necks as he continued walking without interruption into the shadow across the hall.

He was unseen death, and they were the ones who had held his brothers prisoner.

Between his daggers and Tamlin's fists, no guards made it past them. No one made it to the door to the Winter Court. He didn't think any of them ever actually saw Mor and Cassian leave. Instead, they fell, and fell, and fell.

Thankfully no one ever actually asked him, but if anyone had, he'd have had to admit that moments like these were the best he ever, ever felt. The lovers he'd taken, beautiful as they had been, had never been anything but pale shades compared to the feel of his blades, what he could do. It was _justified, _he told himself. Even good people sometimes needed dark work done. These lives were taken in service to something better.

For Rhys, he would have killed a thousand without a shred of guilt. For Cas, he would have killed far more.

Just as he was about to step back out, he heard a woman's voice, full of fury and loathing. "_You will stop now and kneel, you useless piece of shit._"

And Tamlin… stopped. He froze, in mid-punch, and dropped his hand to the side, teeth gritted, as he fell to his knees. Someone kicked him, and the woman's voice spat another command. No one moved after that.

Azriel stayed in the refuge of darkness, the kiss of the shadows over his face hiding him from her notice. He watched Amarantha, wearing only a dressing gown lightly tied around her waist, her hair a wild riot of red, step up to look down at Tamlin's kneeling figure.

Behind her, Azriel saw Rhys for the first time in half a century. He caught his breath. Rhys was impeccably dressed as always, but his hair was out of place and there were fresh red bruises blossoming on his neck he hadn't yet glamoured over. He looked maybe a little older, thinner than when he'd left. His smile wavered in a way it hadn't before, and there were shadows in his eyes, a sense of a pain Azriel could not begin to unravel. Azriel had known Rhys a long, long time. And that face he used to cover up his feelings had always been the same.

"Where is he?!" Amarantha demanded, her eyes scanning the tunnel ahead. Her voice was soft, and low. Even Azriel felt a hint of fear. "Where is the other one? Whoever it was that did _this_?" She gestured at the bodies Azriel had left in his wake.

"Somewhere better than this," Tamlin replied, looking right up at her. "Honestly I have no idea where. _Anywhere _is better than this_._"

_We underestimated Tamlin, _Azriel thought. _We had no idea that this version of him was still there under all that Spring lord ego. _

Amarantha raised an eyebrow. Although fury burned in those eyes, her expression did not change, one of an idle boredom and curiosity. She walked past Tamlin, who remained kneeling, and past the shadow where Azriel hid.

_If I stepped out right now I could kill her._

Even as his hands itched to move, where he held his blades, he held himself still.

He'd taken out a good ten guards on his own, and Tamlin had taken out a few as well, but there were still plenty, probably too many in such a tight space. Rhys might not be able to help, Nuala and Cerridwen had said more than once that he was ordered to protect her with his own life. Azriel could not take Rhys on his own, not even a lessened Rhys. And he never wanted to. And Amarantha… Amarantha was a general, a feared warrior in her own right. He couldn't actually be certain he could take her down, and if he couldn't take her in one blow, this could get very, very risky.

"There's no way Tamlin killed these guards. Must have been the _rescue party._" She glared daggers at the tunnel door, still standing open, the snow beginning to pile up in the entrance as the wind blew it in. "Damn it. Someone find Kallias. I want to question him about this."

It was hard not to balk at the madness that lit her eyes. Someone with access to all the combined powers of the High Lords, even if she could not wield them well, was a terrifying thought.

As she swept past him, her narrowed eyes more closely surveying the door to the tunnel, he could smell her - a heady, cloying vanilla smell, of something sweet with rot underneath. Some of the anger in him seemed to drift.

"I was hoping to introduce him to the King first," she murmured to herself. "This changes things a bit, doesn't it?" It occurred to him that Prythian's evil queen was feeling _insecure._

"I hope he comes here and tears your fucking head off," Tamlin growled. Azriel watched Rhys step forward, crouch next to him, put a hand on his shoulder. Tamlin twisted his head back to look up at the High Lord of Night. "It worked, Rhys," he said with a sharp, painful relief. Azriel's eyes flared, only slightly. Tamlin knew _exactly_ what Cas was to Rhys, clearly. Knew things he shouldn't know. _Cerridwen was right_, Azriel thought, at the look the two men shared. _This is dangerous indeed._

Especially since, when he looked back to Amarantha, he saw that she was also watching them, with a pleased smile playing across her face. She stood just a few feet from Azriel, the surprisingly short evil faerie queen, looking at Rhys and Tamlin like a thirsty man at a river.

"Take them both back to my rooms," Amarantha said finally. "Obviously I'll need time to think up a fitting punishment, this time. And I do my best thinking when someone else is suffering underneath me."

They left, the guards escorting Tamlin and Rhys, who went without fighting, still mostly looking at each other. Finally only Amarantha stood there, eyes on that open tunnel door with an unreadable, intense expression.

Just a few feet away. Alone. He could kill the evil queen right here, right now, and set all the fae free. He tightened his grip around his daggers, moved to step forward, and…

Amarantha turned to look directly at him.

Azriel felt suddenly pinned by her gaze, a rabbit staring into the open talons of an eagle. She smiled, a sneering twist of those lips, and he could have sworn she was looking right at him.

His Siphons flickered out again, all at once. His own power simply… failed. Only the shadows kept him hidden. He wasn't even controlling them, at this point; still, the shadows hid him. They had always hidden him. He couldn't move. He felt frozen by the immense insanity in her eyes.

She stared at him, _into him, _for a long, silent moment. "Well, I'll give it a few days," She said, softly. "We'll see what happens with plan B." She held up one hand and, to Azriel's horror, a shadow curled up around her fingers, settled into the palm of her hand, purring like a kitten. She smiled, and then opened her hand, watching it slowly make its way back to the floor.

Then, she turned around and walked back down the hallway.

When she had gone, and even the stain of her presence had faded, Azriel heard himself let out a rush of breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He wasn't sure whether she'd really known he was there or not. But he had to get back to Velaris. _Now._


	33. Chapter 33

In the end she did not flog him, or have Rhys do it. She didn't bring out the terrifying contents of that small box. She didn't order Rhys to rearrange his mind, or put him in the prisons, or do any of the things Rhys had been prepared to do.

Instead, the punishment was so much worse.

She had Rhys close the silver chains around his wrists, and watched them together for a long time. She didn't touch herself, like she usually did when she watched them. She only sat in her chair, her eyes like a brand on his back, while Rhys brought Tamlin to a whimpering, moaning breathlessness, curled himself around the other man like a cat.

The whole time, he thought to himself, _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Just as the both of them were nearly at their limit, as Rhys had braced himself for it, breathing hard into Tamlin's neck, Amarantha snapped, "Stop."

It took him a second, but he pulled back, groaning in frustration. Tamlin's eyes were half-rolled up in his head and he blinked rapidly, breathing hard. Rhys shot a sidelong glare at her, forgetting for a moment that he tried never to show her his anger. "Amarantha-"

"I said stop."

Rhys took a deep, deep breath, held it, and slowly pulled back. Tamlin made a soft, disappointed sound in the back of his throat, and Rhys decided if they ever got out of this situation, he badly wanted to see if he could make Tamlin make that sound again under happier circumstances. "Yes, my Queen," Rhys said, aching, _aching _with how badly he wanted to continue. But he pulled back, as ordered, staring down, his hands in fists.

Amarantha smiled at him, but it was a smile with no humor, no desire, not even her usual gloating victory. It was cold, and empty, and Rhys recognized himself in it. It was the smile of the High Lord of the Night Court, presiding over the Hewn City.

_You are not like her._

Wasn't he, though? He'd schemed, as High Lord, and used them against each other. The only difference was the body count.

_And also poisoning all the High Lords, and taking over all of Prythian, holding people hostage in your bed, and about a thousand other things. You are not like her._

Really, the difference was body count and ambition. And the fact that Rhys probably wouldn't have had to trick the High Lords to simply take over, if he'd actually wanted to.

_That's a whole new level of being full of yourself, Rhys. You really have been here too long._

"I've thought of Tamlin's punishment," Amarantha said, examining a chip on the fingernail polish on her index finger. "I rather think you'll admire this one. It's very like the Night Court methods."

Rhys felt himself straighten his shoulders, preparing for whatever it was he'd be ordered to do. Hopefully nothing that left more scars on his back. He didn't want to do that again.

"Let me just order something brought to the room, first." There was a moment of quiet, and then Amarantha stood, walking idly away from them, stoking the fire to a high blaze, warming the room. Rhys tried to find a comfortable way to sit, even as his body throbbed, and he could see from the corner of his eye that Tamlin was having a hard time cooling back down, too. She said something to someone, and closed the door again.

She ignored them, for a few minutes, warming herself a cup of tea, pouring a generous glug of brandy into it, and settling down to wait. Tamlin and Rhys did not speak, but eventually he sat himself back against the headboard, and Tamlin slowly leaned over, resting his head against the side of Rhys's. After a while, there was a knock at the door. Amarantha, her dressing gown still wrapped around her, answered the door and murmured something to whoever was on the other side. A few servants made their way in, their arms full of-

"My mother's books," Tamlin said, his voice half-strangled. The chains rattled as he instinctively pulled against them.

Rhys watched the books, all fifteen of them that Lucien had sent, books that Tamlin held onto even after he finished rereading them. Books he'd spent hours looking for all his mother's notes in, told Rhys stories about, laughed over.

"What are you doing, Amarantha." It wasn't a question, not exactly. Rhys knew _exactly_ what she was going to do.

Amarantha turned, a hand resting lightly on one of them. "I'm not doing anything, Rhys, my love," She said, sweetly. "_You're_ going to burn the books, not me. Get up and walk over here."

"Please no," Tamlin whispered, face white under a stripe of angry red along his cheeks, green eyes wide. He yanked on the chains as hard as he could, the cuffs digging hard into the skin of his wrists. "Amarantha, they're all-"

"All you have left?" Amarantha drawled the words, letting her fingernails scrape the leather binding of one book after another. "Of your poor departed mother? And who is the reason for that departure, Tamlin?"

_My father, _ Rhys thought, _who promised he would not hurt her. She was dead when Tamlin and I made it to the door. I was covered in blood from his brothers when he saw me. _

"It doesn't matter," Tamlin snapped. "It was a long time ago."

"Do you know _why_ I wanted Rhys in my bed, Tamlin?"

"I don't care."

"To make sure his father _paid _for what he'd done to you. That _he _paid for what he did to you, to your _father_, who was my friend. To your… mother, too, hm?"

"Rhys. Didn't. Do. That."

"He sure as fuck didn't stop him, though, did he?"

_He told his father where my mother and sister would be. He didn't know, he and my sister were friends, he would never have put her in danger knowingly. They said his father had to set a barrier around his room, that he blew the room apart in his rage and nearly killed a servant trying to escape to stop them. Tamlin never laid a hand on a member of my family in cold blood - only when he saw us and knew his mother had been murdered did he turn on my father. I can't say that about myself, can I?_ Rhys always worried about being the villain in other peoples' stories, but in this… he couldn't exactly claim he hadn't been one.

Tamlin looked away from her, the color still high in his face, even as he muttered, "I didn't stop mine either."

"He killed your brothers _himself_, Tamlin."

_I have been the absolute ruin of your life._

Tamlin didn't look at her or Rhys, only shook his head. "And I killed his father. That was a long time ago. Centuries."

"Was it that long?" Amarantha asked thoughtfully. There was a pause, where she watched the two of them, and then she simply patted the leather cover of the book and stepped back. "Then you won't care about these any longer. Rhys. Throw them in the fire."

"No," Tamlin whispered. His eyes glittered in the light. "Please. Her clothes, her… everything else is gone, is… please."

Rhys stood, ignoring the ache in the core of him that still fought to push Tamlin back up against the wall and finish what they'd started. Tried to ignore the shame, as he felt the compulsion to follow her orders. He walked across the room, feeling the weight of Tamlin's eyes on his back.

_Cauldron, this is cruelty. _It was worse than any other punishment she could have ordered.

Rhys schooled his face into a total lack of expression, a trick he'd picked up from Azriel long ago, and picked up the first book. He knew this one - Tamlin had convinced him to read it, declaring it terrible but somehow impossible to stop. He'd been right, too. Rhys had read the whole thing in less than two days. It'd been about a woman who is kidnapped by pirates and, constantly arguing with the pirate king, accidentally falls in love with him.

"_Then, it turns out he wasn't actually evil, it was just an act he put on for the pirates," Tamlin had said, eyes shining. "They end up finding buried treasure and starting a pirate city. It's so bad, Rhys, but she loved it. She used to read it to me before bed. My father hates this book. I mean hated. He hated this book."_

There had been more notes in the margins. Tamlin was named after one of the book's characters, one of the pirates who had a dark past but a heart of gold, although he claimed his mother had refused to admit to it. The Tamlin in the book turned out to have a child hidden away, paying for their upbringing with stolen coin. She had read it to him several times when he was little, Tamlin had said, and did a bunch of different voices for the different characters.

Rhys threw it into the fire and watched as the carefully treated leather at first resisted the heat, began to crackle and blacken, and then finally caught flame. Tamlin let out a sound from behind him, something nearly animal. Rhys didn't - couldn't - look back.

He picked up the next book, Tamlin's book on limericks, and threw that in too, briefly closing his eyes, thinking about that first night he had really _listened _to Tamlin, let him talk about his life, and realized how much he had missed while they'd been so busy hating each other. It was funny, how you could stare someone down with loathing and hatred who you had once sat by a campfire with laughing until both your sides were sore. How much he had forgotten about someone he'd been so close to. How many things he'd never known in the first place.

The third book, the fourth, the fifth - eventually they became simply a blur of flame and ash and the sound of Tamlin breathing, in uneven gasps, behind him. All desire Rhys had felt before was gone, withered before the pain he was causing. But his own eyes stayed dry.

On the ninth, he actually opened it first for some reason, even knowing that he shouldn't. Inside the front cover, on that first blank page, he could see Tamlin had written his own name three or four times, some time long ago, when he was young. He let his fingers glide over the penciled-in letters, clearly the act of a child just learning his letters, thinking every blank page belonged to him. Tamlin's mother's name was written in there, too, the elegant cursive script that Rhys still remembered very well. Then he threw that one in, too.

When the last of the books had gone into the by-now-blazing fire, he stood, letting its heat make him uncomfortable, nearly feeling singed by it. He swallowed, hard, thinking about all the history, every word Tamlin's mother had written. She'd been kind to him, when he and Tamlin had been friends, so long ago. He'd begged his father not to hurt her, and his father had promised only to kill Tamlin's father for what he'd done to Rhys's mother and sister.

And in the end, he'd lied.

Rhys had spent a damn long time pretending he was the good guy in that story, but he wasn't, was he? No matter what Cas said, or Mor, or even Azriel's calm, cool support. He _hadn't _been the hero of that story. Neither was Tamlin, granted, but... some stories, he thought, don't have heroes at all. Some stories just have enough bones to fill an ocean.

_Tamlin, his hair still mussed up from sleeping, longer as he'd started to grow it out, had looked at him, covered in the blood of the other sons of the Spring Lord. There had been horror there, and fear, and betrayal. And, under all of that, the guilt and grief of knowing it was his fault Rhys's sister and mother were dead. They'd just stared at each other in silence for a long moment before Tamlin had looked away and whispered, "Go, Rhys. I'm so sorry."_

_"Tamlin," Rhys had begun, his voice soft, even as he started to hear servants' footsteps in the halls. Someone screamed, having clearly discovered the High Lord and his wife's bodies in their room. "Tamlin, he wasn't supposed to- he swore he wouldn't-"_

_"Get out of here," Tamlin had said, holding up one hand, the edge of the beast in his eyes and his hands. "If you stay here long enough, your life is forfeit to me. When I... see what happened to my mother, your life will end at my hands. I don't _want_ your life, Rhysand. I just wanted-... Get. Out."_

_Rhys had felt, then, the first stirrings of his mantle settling onto his shoulders, the rush of power finding its way into his bones. Knew he'd begun to glow, like a star at midnight, and saw in Tamlin's skin the sun shining through new leaves. They were High Lords, now - the only heirs left. "I've had my fill of death," Rhys said softly. "I can't kill you, Tam."_

_"I could kill you, if I wanted to. Please, Rhys," Tamlin said, his voice cracking and breaking. "Please go." _

_Rhys had turned and ran, hearing the sound of the house cracking around him as Tamlin began to roar._

There was a bit of paper, unburned but with singed edges, that floated out of the fireplace, landing on the ground next to it, just outside the heat. The paper, about the size of his palm, had a bit of actual book text on it, and he could see a note Tamlin's mother had written, something about _my sweet tam read this one first at eight years old_-

Rhys leaned over, picked the piece of paper up, and deliberately put it into the fire.

"There," Amarantha said smugly. "You take something precious from me, I take something precious from you. And I have yet to take _everything_ you love from you, Tamlin, you had best remember that." She stepped up to Rhys, taking his chin in her fingers, turning him slowly to look at her.

For once, he could not quite hold his usual empty gaze. For once, Rhys let all the hatred shine through, the suggestion of something dark and terrible roiling inside of him, the power he still had even though she'd stolen the rest. A promise of talons, and wings, and vengeance.

She dropped his chin as though he were made of fire himself, and he saw - he _saw - _for one glimmering wonderful moment how frightened she was of him, of what he could _be _if he ever got his power back, if he could have broken the lines and lines of magic that ensured he could never hurt her. Then she turned away to look to Tamlin. Rhys swallowed against the anger that threatened to destroy him from the inside out.

"No," Amarantha said, "I think you still have two things left to lose. Disobey me again, Tamlin my love, act against my interests, and I will take Lucien from you next."

"I won't," Tamlin said, and the sound of his voice threatened to shatter Rhys into a thousand despairing pieces, for being responsible for it even if he'd been ordered to. "Don't hurt Lucien, please don't. I won't disobey again."

_I am going to tear you to shreds for making him feel this way. _

"Good." Amarantha smiled, walking back over to her chair and settling herself in. She stretched her arms over her head, arching her back, like a cat. "Now. I think we have something we were doing that needs finished."

Tamlin let out a strangled sound, but Rhys didn't dare look at him. "You want me to…" All he could do was stare at her. He could feel the rage under his fingers, his heart pounding with five decades of need to absolutely murder her. "... you want me back in _bed _with him? After making me do _that_?"

Amarantha only smiled, untying the sash that held her dressing gown closed. "Yes. Would you like to under your own power, or shall I order you to?"

_Cauldron, I genuinely don't know which option is worse._

"Rhys." That was Tamlin, his voice so quiet Rhysand nearly missed it. He had to steel himself to even look, expecting to see hatred or hurt or that awful, broken despair. Instead, there was something else there. Something much warmer. It was that expression that led him to make up his mind.

"I'll… go on my own power," Rhys said, softly, locking eyes with Tamlin. He moved back to the bed, climbing past those starlight veils. Tamlin, wrists still chained up by his head, watched Rhys move towards him. He could see that Tam's green-gold eyes were red-rimmed from crying, the dried tear tracks a slight shimmer on his cheeks, over his scars on the one side.

But in his eyes...

Rhys felt himself stir, again, simply because of Tamlin's expression. That despite it all, everything he'd done, Tamlin still wanted him. He kissed him, gently, taking his time with it, a soft pressure and eventually Tamlin opened his own mouth, slightly, and Rhys slid his tongue in. In her chair, Amarantha watched, intently, moving her hands down to herself. The two men did not notice - or if they did, they did not care. Rhys slid a hand down Tamlin's ribcage, feeling the other man shift under his touch, hips rising to meet his fingers.

It was the look in those green eyes that spurred Rhys on, this time. The warmth in them that pushed Rhys's hands, his mouth, that had him licking up to the pointed tip of his ear, picking back up the bottle of oil Amarantha kept by the bed. Rhys took his time, and for once Amarantha did not insist they move faster than either wanted to. It took less time than he'd expected for the two of them to be ready again. "I forgive you," Tamlin whispered into his ear, just as Rhys thrust into him. He groaned, both at the feeling of Tam's breath and at the words themselves. "For everything."

"I forgive _you_," He whispered back, into Tamlin's mouth, into a kiss. "For everything. I, of course, have always been perfect."

Tamlin snorted derisively, but could not quite hold back his smile. He let his head fall back, moaning as he used his hips to push Rhys further into him, hands clenching and unclenching in the cuffs as though he would tear himself free. There was a shift, inside Rhys, somewhere deep within his mind, something deeper than thought. A moment of realization that all his time spent looking for someone who would understand him had always been spent looking in the wrong places.

It was a moment of certainty, of recognition and being recognized. His violet eyes met Tamlin's green-gold, and he realized he felt it, too. _I have been looking for you for centuries but you were always here._

He closed his violet eyes, Tamlin's legs wrapped around him, hearing the rattle of the silver chains as he thrust, again and again, wrapped his hand around Tamlin's own hardness to help him along. Heard Tamlin's whispered gasps in his ear, the sounds he made in the back of his throat.

"I _told _you I'm really very good at this," He said hoarsely, into Tamlin's ear.

"Yes, you've... proven that a few times over," Tamlin murmured, tightening his legs. "Mmmn, do that again."

"Yes, _sir_, High Lord."

"Ah... ha, ah, you bastard, shut _up_\- nnnggh…"

_I love you._

_I love you, too._

_Mate._

In her chair by the bed, Amarantha watched.


	34. Chapter 34

Azriel was no less unsettled when he finally made it back to Velaris. His already-weak winnowing ability had simply failed him multiple times, which he was sure was probably because he couldn't focus, couldn't keep his mind on it. All he could think of was one of his shadows, curled up in her hand, answering to her. The look in her eyes, the way she'd seen right through him, only to walk away.

As spymaster, putting seemingly unrelated pieces of information together was one of the things he did best. There was something in the back of his mind, puzzle pieces that he could _almost see_, but that did not quite fit yet.

Amarantha looking at him. He hadn't mistaken it - she had _seen him through the shadows_. But she had just walked away as if she hadn't. Amarantha, manipulating shadows at all. The pervasive sense that Cassian's escape didn't anger her as much as he'd assumed it would. That she hadn't… _done anything _to Cassian. There had been no signs of torture on his brother, not that he could tell. Only those cuffs.

Lucien had said that the Spirit of the Glass, that strange ghost woman he'd met in a desert Azriel had only ever read about in childrens' storybooks, had mentioned someone tied to a throne, losing their wings. Cassian had undergone one of those things, but not the other.

Had they changed fate? Or was that somehow part of what he was sure he was missing in the puzzle?

By the time he made the Night Court lands, he gave up on his weak attempts to winnow and decided simply to fly. He'd been slowed down, had taken nearly a week to get back where he needed to be, but it gave him time to think. And he knew Mor could feel him, along their connection to the wards that held Velaris safe, knew that he was on his way back and so knew not to worry.

The chill of the air on his wings couldn't make it into his heavy Illyrian leathers, and he used it to focus his mind. Catching the currents let him mostly drift, wings wide, letting the air carry him in the right direction.

_She saw me. I'm sure of it. I could have killed her right then and there, but when she looked at me, I… couldn't. Cas is okay; shaken up, but okay. So what am I missing here?_

He'd have to talk to Lucien. Maybe there was something they'd missed, in the riddle, and he'd figure out how it all fit together there.

_Or maybe I need to stop putting my trust in Tamlin's two-faced best friend and a series of vague riddles left by a Suriel._

Azriel was too self-aware to let himself dwell on thoughts like that. Lucien might be two-faced with most of the world, but his devotion to Tamlin had always been one of more admirable things about him - something Azriel could understand, given his own absolute loyalty to an occasionally flighty, overbearing, temperamental, ego-driven High Lord prone to making dramatic gestures and martyring himself 'for a very good reason' that he always refused to explain until the situation became infinitely worse.

Really, if you thought about it, the two High Lords deserved each other.

Velaris felt the same, as he landed. Safe. Happy. Sheltered from Amarantha's rages, her raids. Even if the Illyrian war camps along the coast were being systematically eradicated - or joining willingly up with her in order to save themselves - Velaris remained the safest place in Prythian.

_For now, at least._

He wasn't sure where that thought came from, and chose to ignore it. The shadows that had wreathed him through his flight met with new ones as he landed, and he smiled at the constant reassurance of their feathery touch.

Home.

The townhouse was quiet, at least on the first floor, when he made it there. He could hear the sound of thumping upstairs, though, and headed up to investigate, wings curved tightly against his back to take up less space. The shadows followed him. He wondered, idly, if the shadow that had responded to Amarantha's touch was one of those that trailed him now.

He'd never really considered if they were individuals, or a hive mind, or something else entirely. They were the shadows, and the shadows were his.

Although… maybe not all of them.

He found them all in one of Rhys's guest rooms, Cassian simply passed out cold in the bed, lying on his stomach with his wings loosely collapsed on top of him, covers pulled up to his waist. He looked young, in his sleep. He was still wearing the cuffs. The silver chain that ran from the neck hung off the side of the bed, and Azriel felt sick to his stomach to see it.

Mor and Amren were in a hushed conversation by the window, and when they saw him, Mor's face lit up. "Az, you made it back!"

"I wasn't gone that long. Just had to fly most of the way, it took me a bit to sneak out."

Her bright, shining happy smile... As always, his heart ached to see it, knowing that it would never mean half so much to her as it did for him. She gestured him over, and he moved to them quickly, sitting down on the couch by the window next to Mor. Amren was in a chair, leaning over, elbows on her knees.

"He's asleep?" Azriel asked, in something just above a whisper. "It's got to be… what, three hours before sundown?"

"He sleeps more each day," Mor said, eyebrows furrowed in worry. "Yesterday it was nearly sixteen hours. Even when he's awake, he's… half-gone. Something about those things she put on him, they're_ doing_ something to him. He can barely move, and if he tries, he sleeps forever like this."

"No luck taking them off?"

"Not so far. We have an idea we're going to try, and Lucien is due back from the Autumn Court soon. If our ideas don't work, we'll ask what he thinks."

Amren smiled, that predatory look on her face. "Oh, I bet that means he brings his _sword_ back with him."

"Amren," Mor said, "I'm curious. How exactly does one have a romantic relationship with a sword?"

"It's not _always_ a sword," Amren purred in reply.

"Please don't ask her to elaborate," Azriel said quietly. "_Please_."

Amren snorted. "First you all get huffy over Rhys's High Lord bedmate, now you're uncomfortable at my _physical,_ not_ romantic, _relationship with Lucien's sword."

"I would really like to ask him how it all works for_ him_," Mor said thoughtfully.

"One day he'll understand himself," Amren laughed, but quietly, careful not to wake Cas up. "As of now, I imagine he'd have no answer for you."

"Do… _you_ know how it works?"

"Yes." She grinned, showing teeth that seemed nearly sharp as fangs. "But it's more fun for him to figure it out on his own."

"What do we do about Cas?" Azriel asked, gesturing towards him. Cas shifted, slightly, in his sleep. "He can't stay like this _forever._ He's not much of a military leader if he physically can't leave his bed, or… be awake."

"I contacted one of the silversmiths," Mor leaned back, watching Cas with real worry in her eyes. "They have a certain hammer and chisel set, for use only on enchanted jewels, that they think might be useful for something like this. I… didn't elaborate on what, or who, I needed it for. No one should know that this happened. The story that got out was just that a General Naylen was caught, and Tamlin helped him escape. No one recognized him."

"Tamlin knows who he is," Azriel said, quietly. "Rhys managed to wipe the memory of us, and what we mean to him, from the entire country, but… Tamlin knew. He didn't save Cas because he was an Illyrian who needed help. He saved Cas because of who Cas is to_ Rhys_. What he means to him."

"So it's true," Amren said quietly, and then grinned wickedly. "I was right. Those two are knee deep in it for each other. Cas is going to owe me money whenever he wakes up."

"He never pays up," Mor said, rolling her eyes. "So good luck on that."

"Not true," Cas mumbled sleepily, and all three of them turned to look at him. His hazel eyes were only half open, and he barely managed to push himself up on his elbows. "I pay up. You guys just hate losing to me all th' time. Hey, Az. Missed you. Mostly." He reached out.

"Missed you, too, more than mostly," Azriel said quietly, the old words coming to him from sheer instinct built on centuries. He moved over to him, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Cas let his hand drop, smiling sleepily up at him. He laid his scarred hand, gently, on the space between Cas's shoulder blades, between his wings. Cas closed his eyes, dropped back down onto the pillow, a slight smile still lingering on his face. He squeezed Azriel's hand. "We're going to get these off of you. Then we're going to destroy them."

"Burn 'em," Cas said, already half-asleep again. "Burn 'em outside, Az. Have to burn 'em outside." There was something oddly… flat to the way he said it. "She asked me who... I didn't tell her. Who I... burn them outside, Az." Azriel shook his head, moving his rough, scarred hand in soothing circles until Cas's breathing was deep and even again.

"I don't even think he woke all the way up that time," Mor said softly. "It's getting worse."

"Then let's get these off of him," Azriel said. The way they drained power and energy… Were these made for Cas? Had Amarantha known it would be him?

_What if they hadn't been made for Cas at all?_

"What happened down there, after we left?" Mor asked, leaning over Cas, moving a bit of his hair out of his face.

Azriel hesitated, for the barest second, and then said, "Nothing. I just had to wait until everyone was gone."

He wasn't sure why, but he couldn't bring himself to tell any of them about what he'd seen Under the Mountain. It just… seemed like Cas was more important right now.

* * *

Once they got the hammer from the silversmith, it wasn't as hard as they'd expected. Amren had to be careful, since there was some concern that she might miss and simply whack Cas in the head (although there was at least one suggestion that a good hammer blow to the skull might actually improve his disposition), and Cas had actually largely slept through the process. His sleep was unnaturally deep, and Azriel ended up having to block out his dreams as they grew more and more unsettling, trying not to notice how prominently Azriel himself factored into the nightmare.

The ankles they'd managed to remove first, while Cas slept peacefully. Then the wrists. The deep red gouges on his wrists and ankles, around the edges of the cuffs, troubled Azriel when he realized what they were. _He'd been trying to scratch them off in there._

Even with the wrists and ankles freed, he didn't wake up. The magic, whatever it was that kept him like this, must be in the larger cuff around his neck. It seemed the further the cuffs got from Amarantha's throne, the more they kept Cas worn down so he not only wouldn't get far, he would physically collapse into sleep until they caught up with him.

_That's brilliant. If she made those in large quantities, to hold Illyrians… They couldn't get away from her. They'd fall out of the sky trying to fly away. _

They finally woke him up for the final attempt at the cuff around his neck. Cas sat up for them willingly enough, although he was bleary-eyed, and Azriel had to sit on his other side to keep him upright, an arm around his shoulders. Cas's wings drooped, and he leaned his head against Azriel's, breathing a little too deeply and evenly for anyone to think he was totally here with them. Azriel felt one of Cas's wings brush the back of his head and smiled, trying to keep his own curled tightly against his back.

Amren, the only one whose hands did not shake with worry at potentially hurting Cas, held the hammer and squinted with concentration. Her tongue stuck very slightly out of her mouth when she was this determined, but Azriel figured the first person to point that out would probably lose a couple of limbs over it.

She tested it around the edge, looking for a weak joint in the perfect smooth circle, some sign of the hinge they knew was hidden within it. She held a chisel, gently tap-tap-tapping while Cas sat, blinking slowly, his eyelids staying closed a little bit longer each time.

When he seemed like he might fall asleep again, Azriel shook him, just slightly. Amren hissed in annoyance, pulling back to wait.

"She had poison made for me," Cas murmured. "Someone like me." Amren started her careful tap-tap-tapping again. "Az, I could sleep forever. Stay with me? I think I'm drunk."

"Can't sleep now, Cas. We need you wide awake, bothering us," Azriel said with a smile in his voice, hiding the worry he felt behind his usual blank nothing expression. Amren tapped a new spot, paused, then tapped again. The broad smile that lit her small face told Azriel she'd heard some difference in the sound that he hadn't. She began carefully tapping the same spot, over and over, keeping the chisel perfectly still as she did. He could see it find a weak point, dig in, and begin to push it apart.

The silver cuff around Cassian's neck came loose all at once, coming up and falling off of him with a clatter onto the floor. Azriel noted with another sick flip to his stomach that Cas had scratched his neck raw, too, all the way around.

When the cuff left him, Cas's eyes fluttered, then opened widely. He sat up, pulling away from Azriel's arm, and took in a deep breath. His wings ruffled, slightly, and he looked around at everyone with a grin full of white teeth and stretched his arms up over his head. "Good morning. Wait. Is it even remotely morning?"

"Not a bit," Mor replied, with a rush of relief in her voice. She threw herself at him and they hugged tightly. Amren piled the neck cuff with the rest on the floor, looking at it thoughtfully.

"Do you think the silversmith could use all this to make me-"

"No," Azriel and Mor said in unison.

"You feeling more awake, Cas?" Azriel asked, looking him over. They could heal the scratch marks, but there was more inside his head that he'd have to heal on his own, Azriel could tell that much just from his face. And his dreams.

_Just like Rhys, if we ever get him back. Who probably has so much worse in there. I'll have to block his out or we'll _all _go crazy with it._

"Shit, yes," Cas grinned, looking down at his wrists and ankles, putting his hands up to feel around his neck. "I feel… yes. Oh, this is fucking fantastic." He flexed his hands, then his wings, just a little bit. "I'll need to get more Siphons, though. I can feel it coming back." He looked down at his hands in wonder. "I can feel it _coming back, _it felt like I'd never feel power again."

"I've already got an order in for new armor," Mor said with a smile. Azriel sometimes hated the way she smiled at Cas, had more warmth for him, less self-consciousness. She was more comfortable with Cas, and always had been, right from the start. Even though Cas loved her more like a sister than he did anything else, and probably would have sunk into the floor if Mor had tried to actually… be_ with_ him again. "You've been asleep since we got back, more or less."

"I kind of remember waking up a few times, but it's all… grey. Washed out. Like waking up was the dream…" Cas looked up at a bit of framed art on the wall, an old document from one of Rhys's ancestors that had plenty of writing on it, and frowned. "Still can't read. Bet I'd still have a panic attack if I tried to write, too. _Damn it._"

"We think that's one that has to wear off on its own," Amren said, her voice surprisingly soft and caring. "Could take a few more days. Don't worry too much about it just yet. They wouldn't have kept giving you the water if the spell was permanent."

"Cas, my father is missing from the Hewn City," Mor said softly. "By the time I got there, they said he'd simply… gone. Disappeared, with my mother and half the court. My little brother is still down there, taking over his duties, but the rest of them ran. I think you were right about him selling us out."

"Bastard," Cas muttered, stretching his arms out in front of him, rolling his head side to side, as he finally came fully awake. "Maybe we'll hunt him down and kill him one day. That'd be nice."

"Yeah," Mor said with real feeling. "It would. In the meantime, though, we need to deal with… what Rhys did. Don't we?"

"Rhys did exactly what I expected him to," Azriel said mildly.

"He faltered," Mor murmured, sadly. "When it came down to it… he stumbled, didn't he?"

"He'd have done the same for any of us," Amren said, her voice flat and angry. "And don't any one of you pretend you wouldn't do it for him, too. Mor, you know if she had Cas and Az strung up, you'd sell me and all of Velaris to save them in a heartbeat and slash our throats yourselves. "

Mor chewed on her lower lip, but didn't say anything.

Cas looked between them, then put his hands up. "Amren, he sold out his _people_-"

"Bullshit," Amren snapped. "_You_ are his people. And you're one to talk, Cassian. What would _you _do if someone put Az's head on a block? If they tried to kill him?"

Cas's jaw went tight and he looked away. Finally, in a small voice, he said, "You know I'd do anything."

"That's what I thought," Amren continued. "And Azriel, you know that you'd go right to Amarantha's bed yourself stark naked and oiled up if she told you Cas's freedom hinged on it. Mor, you'd chop off the heads of puppies if you thought Amarantha would hurt us if you didn't. You're _all_ going to falter. That's what living things _do. _I don't want to hear word one about being angry at Rhys about trying to save someone he has decided to love. I suggest we hold off on the judgement until we figure out how deep of a pile of shit we're in. Rhys gave her the locations of some war bands, but now they know and they're on the move, going up into the mountains to hide. She won't get much more."

Azriel watched a bit of golden hair fall into Mor's face as she nodded, arms crossed in front of her. _I want to tuck that hair behind her ear. _As if she could feel his attention, Mor reached her own hand up and pushed her hair back, turning away from him. After a second, Azriel looked away, only to find Cas's eyes on him.

Mor cleared her throat. "Well, while we're thinking about that… we need to deal with these." She gestured at the pile of silver cuffs on the floor.

Cas stared down at them. 'We need to burn them," He said, voice thick with loathing, eyes narrowed.

"I'll get the fireplace going-" Mor started to say, but Cas interrupted her, grabbing her by one arm without looking up from the cuffs.

"No. Burn them outside. We need to burn them outside."

"We could really just use the firepl-"

"It has to be outside."

Azriel fought the instinctive feeling that this fit, somehow, in the puzzle he did not understand. "Fair enough, Cas," He said gently. "We'll take them to the fire pit outside. We haven't lit it in a while-"

"It's been, uh, real warm," Mor pointed out.

"Right. But we can get it going for this."

"Now," Cas said. "We should do it now." The uneasy feeling, like an itch between Azriel's shoulder blades, was still there. Something in Cas's eyes made him nervous, and that was an unfamiliar feeling. He was missing something here, somehow, and he could not figure out what. "We have to do it _now,_" Cassian repeated.

_Something is wrong._


	35. Chapter 35

There was a sense of the air wavering around Cas as he stared down at the pile of silver and garnet on the floor, he was burning too hot. The hatred in him trying to build a weapon with no way to focus it.

Mor's eyebrows furrowed, and then she looked over at Amren, who nodded back. "You and Az burn them. Amren, let's go see if they can get the Siphons ready faster. I forgot you two need so much help with control. Even if they just have _some_ of them ready, that should help…" She pushed herself up, looking down at Cas one more time, that slight smile on her face. "Be careful, Cas. Don't push yourself too hard."

_I love you, _Azriel thought, for perhaps the ten thousandth time. Just like every other time, she didn't hear it. She caught his eyes briefly, and just as quickly looked away. He watched Amren and Mor leave, arm in arm, and wondered if he'd ever get the courage to say it out loud.

Sometimes Azriel thought it was possible he didn't actually feel that way any longer, but it was a nice reason to hold others at arm's length. Every time he thought the words, it felt like maybe he meant them a little less. Or had stopped meaning them at all a long time ago.

Cas was staring at the cuffs with such loathing that Azriel finally just picked them up himself, piling them in his arms. They felt too warm, like they were still heated from his skin. Cas moved down the stairs gingerly, hissing occasionally, and when Az looked at him with concern, the other man only shook his head, hand gripping onto the railing with white knuckles. "It's not wounds. They didn't actually hurt me much. Just… you try not being able to straighten yourself all the way up for as long as I did, see if it fucks up _your_ muscles. I'm going to spend the next month straight flying everywhere just to remind myself I can."

"Fair enough," Az said, guilt a blow to his stomach. It should have been him. He'd been so sure…

_Arrogant. I could have warned him. Why did my visions think I was him?_

When they made it outside, to the fire pit near their small garden, Cas declared himself as having a "sleep hangover" and therefore too weak to be expected to do this himself. He flung himself into a chair, stretching his wings behind him and holding them there, then pulling them in. He did that a few more times, and Azriel watched him luxuriate in that simple freedom.

Azriel loaded up the fire pit with wood and kindling and started a fire. "I wonder if we should save those garnets," Az said, more to himself than anything else. "Pop them out. I don't think they'll really burn…"

"No," Cas muttered, eyes closed. "Burn it all. It _all_ has to burn."

They waited, in comfortable silence until the fire was burning as hot as Azriel could make it. Finally, he picked up the pile of cuffs and simply dumped them, unceremoniously, on top of the brightly burning wood. The silver, with its lower melting point, began to soften and finally to run. Garnets popped out of their settings and settled at the bottom.

Then the melting silver turned into a million tiny grains of sand, pure white, shining like glass, and settled at the bottom of the fire pit.

The color of the smoke... changed. Azriel raised his head to look, eyes narrowed, trying to figure it out. He'd expected_ some_ change, with the addition of burning metal, but that sand... and this smoke wasn't dark, it was... a deep shade of blue. Cas leaned forward, staring into the flames. When Azriel turned to look at him, he realized that Cas's gaze was far away, looking at something only he could see.

"Cas?" His stomach turned. "Cas, what… what are you thinking?"

Cas did not answer. He only stared at the blue smoke, into it, past it. "Cassian," He whispered, with a voice that was oddly flat. "Friend. Brother. Lead the armies." There was a strange expression on his face, there and then gone, something like fear.

"What are you two doing?" Azriel heard. He turned again to see Lucien Vanserra, wearing a subdued olive green shirt and his riding pants and boots, staring at them as he walked up. He was holding something rectangle-ish that hung off one hand, probably whatever he'd brought back from the Autumn Court.

"Burning that shit they put on Cas," Azriel said with his usual deadly quiet. One of his shadows slid up his arm, whispered in his ear, and slid back down the other. "Stay... stay back, Lucien. Something's wrong, though. Cas is..." He reached out, putting a hand on Cas's shoulder. "Cas, talk to me."

Cas's hand snapped out, grabbing Azriel by his arm, pulling him closer to the fire. "That's him," He said, in that same flat voice. "The answer to your question."

"Cas, get up," Azriel said, trying to pull away. Cas's grip was like iron and Azriel inadvertently took a breath of the blue smoke into his lungs. All at once the fight went out of him. He didn't need to go anywhere. This wasn't a problem. It was fine. It was important that he breathe the smoke. It was fine. He should stay with Cas, breathe the smoke until he understood.

Everything would be fine if he did.

"_Leian, et leian, meid siit ules_," Cas said, with a strange lilting accent. His wings stretched again and Azriel stared as the smoke curled and twined around them. He felt it curl up and twine around his wings, too, chasing the shadows away, replacing their feathery brush with something darker. He felt... better, suddenly. Lighter.

"Cas, what..." His voice was thick, slurred, half-drunk. He felt himself sway, just slightly, on his feet. "What... do you want me to do?" To the side, he could see Lucien stumble to a stop as well, breathe in that smoke, and slowly close his eyes.

There was a song in the smoke, something twisted and dark, a promise. Of lives to be taken by his hand, of a darkness he could fall into and never need to return from. The promise that he could do dark things and Cas would give the order, stand beside him. Azriel shivered. There was a strange smell to the air, cloying and thick.

_What is your name? _Whispered a voice inside his head. "Azriel," He answered, haltingly, the name pulled out of him against his will. _What are you to Rhysand, High Lord of Night? _"Friend. Shadowsinger." _Who do you love, Azriel? _"I..."

_I know those words, _Lucien's sword said, and it was like a bell in his mind, interrupting the voice. _We need to leave, Lucien, we need to go now._ For once it didn't sing, but instead seemed to quaver. _This is old magic. You need to go._

Lucien did not move. His hand dropped from its near-permanent place on the hilt of his sword. He opened his eyes again to stare into the fire. The blue smoke curled around his hands, up his arms, made a slow twine around Lucien's neck, ruffled his auburn hair. Covered over his metal eye until it seemed a deep, deep blue. "Lucien Vanserra," He said, in the same flat, empty voice Cas had used.

_Who do you love, Azriel? _

"It's singing to me," Lucien whispered. The blue smoke seemed to drift in a gentle circle around him, pulling him closer. He stumbled forward. "It smells like…"

_Get away, _Lucien's sword hissed, but Lucien didn't seem to hear, his face gone slack and empty like Cassian's. _No, no my love, no no no listen to me do not trust the song-_

Cas turned slowly and looked right at Az. Blue smoke made its way up Cassian's face, wreathed his hair like a halo, as he reached out, his hand slightly curled, touching the side of Azriel's face with the back of his fingers. "_Siduda ta troonile. Vota ta tiivad enda jaoks._"

"I can't think, Cas," Azriel said, slurring his words. He felt the worst kind of drunk. "I can't... think."

"Sssshhh," Cas murmured to him, a slight smile on his face, the backs of his fingers trailing down Azriel's face, over his jaw, down the side of his neck. "You don't need to think. Just stay with me."

Azriel stepped a little closer to him, tilting his head up and to the side, eyes starting to close as he offered his neck. "Stay with... you."

_You have to get away, _the sword's voice, its shadow-whisper hiss, was pleading with Lucien. Azriel could barely hear it over the singing in his mind.

He'd been such an_ idiot._ Azriel understood it now, as the smoke settled into the back of his mind, as the vanilla scent was so thick he was gasping for air. The missing piece of the puzzle. What he'd been trying to understand about the cuffs and Cas's strange behavior. He knew. He understood it all at once. When he tried to turn and put a hand out to Lucien, though, the blue smoke wound around his arm, chasing shadows away, the woman's singing voice whispering in his ear a thousand terrible rewards for obedience. He dropped his hand. "Cas... what is she promising to you?"

Cassian's fingers closed, with terrible gentleness, around his throat. Awareness flickered in and out of his eyes, an expression of mild surprise. "You," he said softly. Azriel genuinely couldn't tell if Cas was answering his question, or if the thing controlling him had recognized him.

_Lucien, STOP, _the sword shouted, the sound of it absolutely ringing through Azriel's mind, but Lucien never paused, and Azriel couldn't move. Lucien put out his hand as though he would touch the fire. He was holding, Azriel realized, an old brass lantern.

"Lucien," Azriel finally choked out around Cassian's tightening grip, as his shadows briefly overcame the smoke, "you should_ stay back,_ the smoke, it's tra-" He started coughing, that cloying vanilla scent in his lungs, choking off his air as though it could understand what he was trying to say.

Lucien jerked his hands back, blinking rapidly, seeming suddenly to come awake. He grabbed at the hilt of his sword-

"_See siin on minu,_ Lucien," Cas snapped, his wings as wide as they would go, his eyes terrifyingly distant. "_Ta saab teid!_" Cassian was the song, Azriel could hear Cas's voice singing in the back of his mind, that low baritone that the Illyrian warrior liked to pretend he didn't have. The song was so full of promises. Azriel could hear his own softer tenor voice, harmonizing...

"Will you do what I say? I can save you."

Azriel, struggling to breathe, only shook his head, trying to clear it. "Cas, I-"

"_Polviita,_" Cassian hissed at him, and his grip pushed Azriel down to his knees. His hands fumbled at the daggers he always kept on himself, struggling to get his fingers to work. He felt Cas's other hand in his hair and froze again. "Azriel. It's too late now. _Ta saab sinu._ _Olla ikka, ja tean et ma olen sinu._"

"Lucien," Cassian said, turning his eyes on Lucien, "Will you do what I say?"

Lucien took two steps closer, staring at Cas now. "What... do you want me to do?"

_Go fuck yourself!_ the sword growled, and it was a beacon of clarity in the fog that had overtaken Azriel's mind. Lucien shook himself, like a dog shaking off water, his eyes starting to clear up, stumbling back. _This is mine. This one belongs to me!_

"W-what is this?" Lucien asked, coughing, backing away.

_Your friend here is about to get you all killed, _Lucien's sword hissed back. _Run, my love._ It let out a discordant shriek of sharp notes, an alien scream, and Azriel felt, somewhere else in Velaris, Amren's head snap up where she and Mor stood speaking with the armorer, sensed Amren pushing her way out the door.

"Go," Azriel hissed at him. Those hands on his neck, in his hair... he looked up into Cas's eyes and felt himself start to fade again. "Go _now,_ Lucien!"

"Stay with me, Az," Cas said, a little hoarsely. "I think I'm drunk. Stay with me tonight."

Azriel tried to get to his feet, stumbling a little, but he made it, pulling away from Cas's grip, which loosened finally as Cas shook his head. "Cas, I wouldn't leave you no matter what you did, ever," He whispered, trying to get between Cas and Lucien. Something about that seemed to break its spell - Lucien turned and ran, and Azriel watched him go, wishing his own feet would move, rooted to the spot.

Cas reached out, pressing his hand to Azriel's cheek. He lifted his own and placed it, scars and all, over Cas's. He could see anguish in there somewhere, roiling under the calm surface of Cas's face. "So many promises, between the two of you," He said softly.

"I would never not stay with you if you asked," Azriel said softly. "You've always known that. Amarantha, I know this is you."

Cassian's face twisted into an ugly sneer and he laughed, a strange and hoarse laughter that was totally unlike him. "I knew I would see you again, shadowsinger. _Sa oled ko'ak minu._"

He heard the first sounds of other people starting to notice. Azriel heard a shout, from somewhere nearby. A child began to cry. He prayed, to no one and nothing in particular, that someone would get to them in time.

Before whatever this was... finished. Before it was too late.

Cassian laughed again. When he spoke, it seemed forced, as though he were just a mouthpiece for her. "Oh, you beautiful boy. How wonderful that it turned out to be you. _Olete alati liiga hiljaks jaanud._"

"No." Azriel's voice was a thin whisper around the smoke he struggled to breathe. "No, I won't." His lungs were full of the heavy vanilla scent, his skin covered in the brush of the smoke, its feathery, foggy touch. He thought to himself, _silver lights the fucking spark all right. _"It's both of us, Cas. The… riddle… it's _both of us_." Azriel simply crumpled onto his side in the dirt, unconscious.

* * *

Cas smiled down at him for one long second, then fell forward onto his hands and knees, his wings spread wide behind his body. A struggle rippled through him, a flash of real emotion, rage and fear, on his face, "Don't you fucking touch him," He snarled. Then whatever struggle he was having, he lost, and his face went flat again. "_Ma tullen sul jarele_," He said in a tone that was somewhere between threat and promise.

Cassian's eyes rolled back up in his head, he took one deep breath of blue smoke, and collapsed as well, one wing covering Azriel.

After a few seconds, the smoke cleared and was gone. All that was left in the firepit was a small pile of ashes and a handful of smoke-blackened garnets, which shone with immense stored power underneath, specks of glowing red through a pile of gray ash.

Lucien came running back with a few people behind him, and stumbled to a stop. Amren and Mor winnowed in, Mor's hands over her mouth in horror. Cassian and Azriel, breathing deeply as if in sleep, were lying unconscious on the ground. Azriel's mouth moved, as though he were trying to speak, and his scarred hands twitched as he tried to wake himself up.

* * *

Sitting in a chair, reading some correspondance she'd recently received from another court, Amarantha took a deep breath and looked up, looking into the fire. Tamlin and Rhys were no doubt asleep by now in their own room. Probably tangled up together. Cauldron, she'd made the right choice there. Rhys was nearly so corrupted by _love _as to perform exactly the role she was hoping to force him into.

_There is no weakness greater than love, _she thought. _And by the Mother, how I can play that poison like the most exquisite violin._

The fire burned, suddenly, a bright blue.

Through that fire she saw her captive general, his eyes right on hers, stand. Felt him fight the smoke, and fail. _Did you think freedom would be so easy, silly boy? _Amarantha was the queen of witches, after all; someone whose spells on objects and in food and drink were so powerful that she had bound an entire kingdom of High Lords to her will. Behind him she could see mountains in the distance, some sort of lovely backyard garden. The sounds of a city filtered in, tinny and hardly audible, but there.

She took his name out of his mind. Her eyes widened as she realized what she'd had tied to her throne unknowingly for six whole months, that she had had another key to the final breaking of Rhys, the molding of her whore into her weapon, in her grasp that whole time. And lost him, thanks to Tamlin. And Rhys had never even _suggested _he'd known who it was.

Amarantha's fingernails scraped along the table, her teeth grinding together. This was humiliating. Tamlin and Rhys had _fooled her._ She had never even considered that it would be someone close to Rhys - and Rhys's behavior had never so much as _suggested_...

She'd thought Tamlin was more broken than that.

Well.

There'd be time to be angry about that later.

For now, she told him what to say, the words in a tongue older than humans, Illyrians, and fae, a spell that came in phrases. She watched his lips move, could feel his fight even as he obeyed. She could see his pretty friend by him, reaching for him. Took the pretty one's name, too, and what he was. Could feel the pretty one's thoughts flying past her. _(Let him go, let Cas go, my brother let him go, Cas come back to me, come back._) That had been the man in the shadows before, the one she had seen.

She pushed a weakness she could feel in her captive, an unsurprising weakness. She used it to dig her claws in deeper. He struggled against her, but she drowned him in promises, in what she could give him. When she tried to force the pretty one to answer her questions, it was instead Cassian's thoughts that swarmed her _(you can't do this to me, don't you fucking touch him, not him, no_), and finally she gave up. At least she had _him. _She could work on the other one later.

His mouth _begged_ to be put to good use.

_There'll be time for that soon enough._

There was someone else there, she could see the pretty one speaking. Oh, her captive general did not like her attentions turning to him at all, did he? (_i'll fucking rip your throat out if you touch him, don't you lay a hand on him, don't hurt him I'll never let you hurt him_) The pretty one was saying something to someone, but she couldn't hear or see the other person. Almost... so close...

Ah.

Lucien Vanserra.

Now... _that_ was interesting. There was a sense that Lucien was so close to falling under her control as well, but a screeching, discordant sound made her flinch and close her eyes and when she looked back, he was gone. She led Cassian through it, telling him what to say, knowing the smoke whispered promises into his mind. He had not quite given in to her yet, but she was nearly there. Just a little bit further...

The fire, which had burned a blue so hot it was nearly white, just as suddenly went out, as Cassian finally collapsed.

The fire in her fireplace went out at the exact same moment, as she heard the sound of people approaching them.

Within her, however, a compass flared to life. With a smile, she realized it pointed north. Her smile widened as she realized exactly _where_ north it pointed. The Night Lands. A forgotten part of it, near the sea, something her mind told her was barren nothingness, _insisted _was a pointless scrap of sand not worth even a visit, but what she'd just seen was… not that.

"_There _you are," She said, softly, tracing her fingertip over the table. "There's what my Rhys has been hiding from me. Now what leads him to glamour an entire city away from me? Hm?"

She went to her door, and when she opened it, the Attor had heard her mental summons and arrived. "Prepare the army," She said, with relish. "We haven't had a raid in a while, and I have a _big _one planned."

"Your Majesty, the mortal lands-"

"Leave the troops currently stationed at the border where they are. Let them be Lucien's problem in the Spring lands." She smiled, leaning languidly against the doorway. _And why is my pretty fox not where he is supposed to be, anyway? _"But let's get the rest together for this. It's going to be a hard fight, but trust me - it will be a true victory. Once we've finished this raid, Rhysand will be ready to pledge himself to me fully."

The Attor went away to relay her orders and she thought of Rhys and Tamlin, the two High Lords she had for her very own. Who had fooled her, lied to her about that Illyrian general for _months_, and she had never suspected it.

Rhys's final test would teach him to never lie to her again. She had no doubt he'd do exactly what she wanted. He'd passed the first one with such flying colors, after all, giving up war bands to save Tamlin's life. And that had been _before _they'd gotten as close as they were now. After this... After this, she'd ensure he had no identity left but the one she had given him.

"I suppose I need to pack my things," Amarantha said cheerfully to herself. She walked over to her bed, pulling one of several boxes out from under it. "Ooooh, Tamlin," She purred as she opened one box, looking at what was inside. "I nearly got the chance to make you wear these once. It would have been years before I would have set them to let you so much as leave my chambers. Too bad your father wasn't amenable." She looked over a set of silver cuffs that looked almost exactly like the ones she'd had put on Cas... except that these had small emeralds set in them, not garnets, and were much, much older. "Too bad he died before I could make _sure _he agreed to sell you to me."

She smiled, dreamily, thinking of all the plans she'd made for Tamlin back then, when he was young and could have been so much more easily molded.

"Then again," She said to no one in particular, "the only reason I had the other ones made was to improve upon these originals. Just in case, of course." Underneath the emerald set, a third, set with sapphires instead. A fourth, set with amethysts. A fifth, with diamonds that looked like chips of ice. A sixth with topaz that sparkled like an autumn day. There were more, in other boxes. The silversmith improved upon the design with each new set.

A small shadow detached itself from the wall and curled, slowly, in a spiral as she looked at it.

"He should have known better," She said idly. "That shadowsinger. The powers that come under my domain are mine. So what do you think? Should I bring a sweater?"


	36. Chapter 36

Azriel couldn't find his way out.

_His brothers had closed and locked the door, and he was in the dark again. It was better to be in here by himself - they only hurt him, over and over again, knowing he could not stop them. Azriel curled up as tightly as he could, his small body made even smaller on the bare mattress he slept on, with a blanket and a pillow for company. He curled his wings around himself as well, for extra warmth._

"_He's getting pretty," One of his brothers said to the other, just outside. Azriel could hear them, even though they didn't know it. He always heard, and saw, things that no one else did. Nobody ever asked, though, and when he tried to speak they mostly hit him to shut him up._

_So he learned not to talk, and not to tell._

"_Ha. He won't be pretty for long once the warriors get ahold of him. He's almost half-grown and can't even fly. They'll laugh for an hour, beat him to death, and he won't be our problem anymore, will he?"_

"_I don't know why Father took him in in the first place. He'd be better off dead."_

_Azriel, sitting in the dark, felt the curl and the kiss of his shadows, and smiled. He may not be able to get out of here, but he was never, ever alone._

_He knew something no one else knew, too. He knew that he was going to make friends at that Illyrian camp. He had already seen their faces._

_He even knew one of their names._

"Cas-"

"Sssshhh," Mor's voice, her hand on his forehead, and Azriel fell back. He could smell Cas in here with him, felt someone move next to him wherever he was lying, and relaxed. Cas was here. Mor was here. Amren, too. "Don't get up too fast, Az, you'll regret it."

"It's both of us," Azriel said hoarsely. He could feel the shadows curling around his wrists, and felt himself smile, faintly, at the reassurance of their touch. "It's both of us, Mor."

"What is?" She asked, her hand still on his forehead. He felt more than saw her, through half-lidded, blurry eyes, as she leaned back and murmured, "Still feverish."

"This isn't a fever," Amren said firmly. Azriel couldn't see her, but her voice was nearby. "We both know this isn't a fever."

"He's burning up," Mor said, annoyance in her voice. "Both of them are. What else would you call it?"

Amren was silent for a second. "You know what I call it. They're drowning in her magic. She buried them in it. We're lucky they're alive."

Uncomfortable silence.

Azriel reached out, grabbing Mor's wrist in his hand, turning to stare right into her eyes. _I love you. _He saw her look away, pretending at concern for Cas, and dropped his hand. She was never going to change.

Maybe he'd always used Mor as a distraction from looking too closely at himself.

No. He needed to not get distracted, he wasn't totally awake. Once he was, he might not be able to finish what he needed to say. Azriel forced himself to speak while he still felt foggy and uncertain, while the chains on his thoughts were easier to slip off. "It's both of us."

Mor frowned, her head tilted, that shining curtain of golden hair falling around her shoulders. "_What_ is both of you?"

"Don't …"

_Why can't I say it?_

"What?" Mor looked up and to the side, presumably at Amren. "What are you saying, Az?"

He could still hear her, in the back of his mind. His own thoughts were louder, but only just. The low litany of promises, the things she could give him if he obeyed. The person she could give him, if he only obeyed.

_Rhys, I could really use your help right now._

"I'm not the shadows," he muttered. He couldn't quite seem to get the words out through the fog.

"Of course you're the shadows," Mor said, worried. "You are _literally _shadows sometimes, Az."

"Not this time. I'm the song." Az felt tears in his eyes at the baffled look in hers, and turned his face away from her. His heart pounded with fear at the thing he knew he needed to say while he still could. "You have to lock us up."

_You can't trust us. _The words would not come out.

His scarred hands were shaking.

"_You need to stop," Rhys had said, the first night Azriel had stayed with them, the scarred boy opening and closing the door to his sleeping quarters repeatedly, testing. Over and over again. "That is the most annoying thing I've ever seen. Azriel, nobody's going to lock that door. Just quit it."_

"_Fuck yourself, rich boy," Cas snapped from where he sat, sharpening one of his already copious knives on a rock. Azriel was pretty sure he'd made this knife himself out of somebody else's broken discarded one. "You don't know shit about having a hard life. Let him open a door a few times if he needs to know it'll still open."_

_Rhys had snarled at Cas, and then dropped it when the other boy snarled back, throwing his hands in the air. "Fine. Whatever. You're both insane," He muttered. "And ungrateful."_

"_Oh, you want some gratitude, High Lord?" Cas sneered, but there was a playfulness to it that took some of the edge off. "Should we thank your highness for his generosity to us lowly bastards?"_

"_It's 'we' lowly bastards," Rhys said, and then winced. "Shit."_

"_My apologies, rich boy, guess I'm too much of a bastard to know my grammar," Cas said, but he was grinning now. "Not all of us get private tutors. Might want to watch your language, are you aristocrats allowed to use such filthy words?"_

"_Oh, fuck yourself right back._ _I'm taking a bath." Rhys had a grim set to his jaw, for being all of twelve years old. "If my mother hears you say that, you'll end up in tutoring with me, you know."_

_Before he'd made it out, Cas had said, a bit more softly, "Hey."_

_Rhys turned back._

"_Look… no hard feelings, yeah? Just… it's what he needs to do right now."_

_Rhys had finally nodded. "Yeah. No hard feelings. Not about this anyway."_

_"Not about this," Cas grinned at Rhys's back as he left. "Oh, your lordship? We'll try not to pine away with longing while waiting for your return! Please grace us with your presence once more!" They both heard Rhys laughing in the hall._

_Az had waited until he was gone, opened and closed the door two more times, and then looked up to see Cas giving him a half-cocked smile. "It will, right?" Az asked, once he knew Rhys was out of earshot. His voice was softer, a little weaker. "It'll still open? No matter what?"_

"_Yeah," Cas replied, all the anger out of him for the moment. "Yeah, Az. Trust me, all right? Nobody's ever gonna lock you up again, not while I'm here."_

Cas lay next to him in the bed, almost half-out of it, as though Mor and Amren had only been able to carry him so far. His face was peaceful, but even as Az looked at him, he began to shift around, taking a deep breath, his wings opening and closing slightly. Az had heard versions of that breath most of his life; Cas was about to wake up.

He wondered if Cas could still hear her, too.

"What are you trying to say, Azriel?" Amren leaned in closely, those shifting silver eyes locking onto his. Her hair, as usual, a perfect shimmering black where it was cut bluntly at her chin. "Cauldron, the _heat _coming off of them. What are you trying to tell us about what happened back there?"

"We're not going to _lock you up- _Az, you_ hate locks-_" Mor stammered, but Amren held up one hand and she went quiet.

He kept his eyes on Cas. "I'm not the shadows, Amren. You can't... _augh, _I can't say it. There's a _song-_"

_Tied to her throne and forced to sing. _He was already starting to lose the feel of the strings, though.

Amren nodded slowly, biting her lower lip, thinking. She and Mor looked at each other. "He's seeing things." Azriel groaned inwardly. They didn't understand. The words didn't mean anything to them at all. He couldn't seem to tell them, couldn't find the words to say. They were locked up in the back of his head, behind a sense of blue smoke and Cas's gentle baritone singing, trying to lull him back to sleep. "All right, Azriel. Just try to rest."

Next to him, Cas's lips moved, as though he were speaking to someone. Azriel could almost understand him… almost.

"We need to talk to Lucien about this," Amren said, standing up and gesturing to Mor, who followed suit, looking worriedly back at him. "He was there."

"Lucien told us what he saw," Mor said, chewing her lower lip again, common when she was nervous. "He doesn't remember much. But he already left."

"You let him leave?" Amren asked, her eyes narrowing.

"He said he had to go Under the Mountain," Mor groaned, putting her head in her hands. "He promised Amarantha he would, when he got back from the Autumn Court. He said he didn't dare let it take too much time."

"Shit," Amren said, but without any particular rancor. "I don't blame him. Better to see her when she's happy he hurried back than pissed that he didn't. We'll just have to figure it out ourselves, then, til he gets back."

"Az, do you remember any of the words Cas said?" Mor asked, her worried eyes on him.

No. Not on him. Past him. On Cas.

"No," Azriel murmured, closing his eyes. When he tried to think, tried to remember exactly what he'd seen, all he could sense was the vanilla smell, the idea of Cassian's empty face, his fingers tightening on Az's throat even as his other hand had been in his hair. A spike of fear, that cold heart of his on fire, with the need to… help him, go to him, be by his side, do whatever he wanted. "I can't remember what he said."

_Please don't leave us alone._ He couldn't ask. _I don't know if he's still in there or not. I don't know if I can stop myself._

"Oh, well. Try to rest," She said gently. "Amren and I will try to find a way to help without locking you up." She and Amren left. Azriel sent shadows to trail them and listen to their conversation, almost instinctively, hardly even a thought. Amren was suggesting a trip to the library to research.

"I might not know what they are," Amren said thoughtfully as she and Mor headed downstairs. "But I think I know their age, and where they came from, and that's a good place to start. I need to get to the library."

"I'll try and find Lucien," Mor said, nodding to herself. "If I can get him back quickly, we won't have to... do what Az says." Her voice wavered, a little, at the end.

"I know," Amren said, their voices almost too faint to her as they made it to the bottom of the steps. "I don't want to lock him in either."

They were gone.

Azriel laid there, his mind still a fog of dreams, his heart a block of ice and worry he could not quite bear to fully examine just yet even as he felt the fire burning around at the edges, leaving ash behind. He couldn't hear it any longer, but he could _feel it_.

A threat. A promise. A song.

All he had to do was open a door, and he would have what his cold heart truly wanted.

* * *

Cas was trapped.

_The silver cuff was back around his neck and he was locked in that jail cell, in the dark, with only the hint of a light down the hall to see by. The smell was everywhere, the prison smell of blood and shit and worse. He tried to get free, pulled to the end of his chain, screamed in fury and scratched himself bloody. Nothing happened. He heard the sound of someone else coming, looked up to see Azriel escorted by guards, dragged by them really, only an agonized groan giving away that he was still alive, bloody stumps protruding from his back where his wings had once been-_

No. That didn't happen. I'd have torn the bars down to get to him, bitch.

_He was tied to her throne, watching her fuck Tamlin, hopeless and helplessly trapped, just some object for her to show off. She was making him watch, and it wasn't Tamlin, it was Azriel. It was Azriel who twisted, miserably hard, underneath her, who turned his blank hazel eyes on Cas, full of tears-_

I'll kill you and myself and everyone Under the Mountain before you'll touch him. Try me.

_He'd been making his way up the mountain for days, climbing higher and higher. Had killed so many by now, so many warriors who might have been friends if it weren't for the Blood Rite. He'd taken everything off of the bodies for supplies, had changed boots every time he found someone with warm, dry boots that were close to his size. His clothes were nearly stiff with the need to be washed. His hair hung in clumps around his face, and he was nursing a bad, potentially infected cut to one arm he was trying to forget existed. His wings, tied tightly behind him, ached to be released._

_He rounded a bend, found some rocks that had natural gripping spots, and climbed straight up with his arm muscles screaming at him to ease up. He couldn't, though; he'd seen signs of others nearby, and he had to move fast enough not to become yet another target. His gloves were nearly in tatters, and he'd lose a finger or two if he didn't find someone to kill and steal a new set from soon enough. He told himself to focus, to simply put one foot up and then the other, digging his already torn fingernails into the rocks. _

_He made it, pulling himself up onto a ledge that led to a small line of trees just below the line where they stopped growing, got to his feet, and took a deep breath. _

_A knife to your neck is an unmistakable sensation, and Cassian's eyes widened as he saw the weak sun shimmer slightly off a blade that had nearly drawn blood, wondering who had gotten the drop on him. He slowly turned, realizing first that the knife was held by an ungloved hand, horribly scarred._

_Cassian's heart beat so loud he could hear his pulse in his ears. Azriel stood at the other end of the blade, smiling at him. Not his usual small, quiet expression, the kind of smile he had learned as a child was so unobtrusive that no one would hurt him for it. No, this was a smile Cassian had only seen perhaps four times in their whole long lives, a bright, natural, wide smile that lit up every bit of his beautiful face. _

_That had been the first time he'd seen Azriel smile like that. And it had been for him._

"_Hey, Cas," Azriel said, and dropped his hand, sheathing the knife. "Where have you been? I've been waiting for you to catch up with me."_

_Cas grabbed him, just grabbed onto him and held him, and it was probably right then that he knew. He'd spend the next five centuries ignoring it, but in that moment, he knew. "Az, you're alive. You're still alive." Az's shadows slithered around them, a kiss of cold dark along Cas's neck, ruffling his hair. The first time Azriel's shadows had touched him of their own volition._

"_So are you," Azriel said, holding him just as tightly. His voice cracked and broke, just slightly, before he brought it back under control. "So are you. So are you."_

_There was a silence, their arms around each other, both of them ignoring the way the other one smelled by this point. Cas pulled back, finally, looking at him again, searchingly. Azriel had a couple of healing cuts on his face, one across his nose, that would probably heal into scars, but otherwise he looked good. "Missed you. Mostly."_

"_Missed you, too. More than mostly," Az said, and then his eyes scanned around them. "Let's see what food we've both got and work out a ration schedule. There's a cave near here I'm using for shelter, but I haven't dared start a fire."_

"_We'll just have to huddle together for warmth," Cas joked. Azriel mock-punched him in the arm and led him away._

"_We'll find Rhys in the morning. If I found you today, I bet he's close, too."_

_Cassian almost said, I hope it's just us for a while._

No. Don't want you to see this. Not yours to remember. Not yours, you fucking bitch. This memory is mine. This is _mine_.

He felt himself rip it away from her, the burst of her frustrated rage that, even if just for a moment, he was stronger. But it was his: that memory, the memory of the first time he _knew himself_. It belonged only to him.

Cas shifted in his sleep, felt himself take a breath, tried to swim back up to consciousness, melted back into the dream nonetheless. He could vaguely hear them talking, but he couldn't quite bring himself awake to understand what they were saying. He could hear Azriel's tenor voice singing in his mind, beckoning him back down into sleep.

All that mattered was Azriel and Rhys, Mor and Amren after that. The rest of the world could go to hell.

_He'd brought hell with him into the world._

_Cas stood on a bloody battlefield under a red sky, his Illyrian leathers smeared with it, grinning wickedly at the carnage he had wrought. His soldiers flew above, still picking off those who had tried to separate from their regiments, men hoping to return to families long since herded away or massacred. His Siphons glowed bright with more power than he'd ever had, and all these bodies were here because of him. He could see a line of mortals being led away in chains and found no empathy for them within himself._

_He had been ordered to kill whatever he could not enslave. Their fates were none of his concern._

_He turned, and Azriel stood just behind, smiling back at him, in his own armor with the blue Siphons glowing wildly bright. Not much of an expression, maybe, but Cas had known him for centuries. This was Azriel, content. Cas was the Queen's Killer, her living blade turned upon the continent, and the Killer's Shadowsinger the eternal darkness beside him. _

"_Are you with me?" He asked, already knowing the answer._

_Azriel smiled. "I am always with you, Cas," he replied, shadows twisting around him so that he seemed to disappear and reappear. _

_Together, they looked back out at the death and destruction they had wrought. Cas laughed, a wild and carefree sound, and Azriel walked up, standing next to him._

_Cas turned his head to the side, leaned forward until he and Azriel's foreheads touched. Azriel reached up with one scarred hand and wiped a spot of blood off Cas's face, licked it off his own thumb. They stood there for a moment, two unrepentant killers, their eyes on each other, and then Cas whispered. "Together, no matter what."_

"_No matter what," Azriel replied. "Always."_

All he had to do was welcome her in.

"What I want," Cas mumbled, and realized only after the words were out that he'd actually said them, not just thought them, and was awake. Lying on a bed. Home. He groaned, putting his hands up over his eyes.

Everything still smelled like vanilla and woodsmoke.

What had happened back there? The last thing he remembered was looking into the fire while those hateful silver cuffs burned. Then… nothing. Absolute blank nothing. Now this.

"It's okay," Az murmured beside him, and Cas tried to blink himself fully awake, slowly pushing himself up. He turned to look. Azriel's hair was a mess around his head, half of it sticking straight up, the other half smashed down from his pillow. Cas couldn't quite keep back his smile.

"Hey, Cas," Az said when they met eyes. "Where have you been?"

"Dreaming, I think," Cas said blearily, then pushed himself up until he was sitting, looking down. He was still wearing his clothes from earlier, so it couldn't have been too long. Azriel sat up too, when he did, and there was a moment of silence as Cas looked around. It was the same guest room he'd been in since… "I thought I was supposed to _stop_ being sleepy when you got that shit off me?"

"You_ did_ stop being sleepy. Then we went outside to burn them." Az groaned, rubbing at his left eye with one fist. Cas swallowed hard, watching him. "Something happened out there. I don't… I remember your face…"

"Yeah. It's all a mess for me, just… a weird smell and heat."

"I said something to Amren, about it," Az muttered, shaking his head. "I don't remember what I said. I wasn't all the way awake. They said Lucien was there, I think, or… saw something? We'll ask when they come back. Cas, I…" Azriel trailed off. Something changed in his face, an expression Cassian hadn't seen in centuries, at least.

"What is it?"

"I asked them to lock us up," Azriel said. His voice cracked, just slightly, on the word 'lock'. "And I can't remember why. I can't remember so much..."

"Az, no-"

"I think they need to, but I can't remember why. I don't _want _to be locked up, Cas. I-I hate-"

"I know you do. Never again," Cas said, grabbing onto one of Azriel's scarred hands in both of his, the rough, ropelike scars shifting under his grip. They met eyes, and Cas leaned in slightly closer. "Do you hear me? I made a promise to you, Az. No one's ever going to lock you up again."

"I don't know_ why_ I asked, Cas. I can't remember. It seemed important, but... I don't want to-"

"I won't let them," Cas hissed. "Don't worry, Az. I'll never let them lock you up. We're together in this, right?"

There was a warning bell inside his head, but he didn't know why. A warning bell muffled by the sense that it was fine, it would all be fine, as long as he kept Azriel by his side.

"Together," Azriel repeated, and smiled at him, that small quiet smile. "No matter what."

The warning bells rang louder. What had happened by that fire? He remembered he had been dreaming… but no. Whatever the dream was, it was gone.

_I can make sure that he is never locked up again. I can help you keep him safe._

All he had to do was let her in.

So he did.

Cas grinned, sitting up in bed. He felt amazing, suddenly, lighter than air. "Always."


	37. Chapter 37

Lucien arrived Under the Mountain to discover everything was chaos.

He looked around, metal and good eyes both widened slightly in surprise, at what he saw. There were soldiers in every nook and cranny, servants hurrying along with boxes of weapons, supplies, food and drink. He felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, a sense of unease, and pushed himself further into the tunnels, deeper down into the dark, nonetheless.

No one bothered him as he walked, the soldiers simply ignoring his presence entirely. As he swung through the private areas for a couple of the different Courts, he could see them in their rooms, talking in hushed voices, going quiet as he passed. He even saw Kallias, briefly, who only shook his head and closed his door in Lucien's face.

Something was very, very wrong.

Where had this army come from?

He had everything he needed. He'd go back for Cassian, since the Azriel had continued to insist that it was really Cas who was the answer to the Night Court's riddle. Otherwise, he needed to come down here:

_Fox watch heart of midnight break_

_Under the Mountain is where it begins_

_Truth reads while love's ghost wakes_

_Open the gates to let her in_

And after here, he supposed, to visit Feyre again, in her grave. To… wake her up.

_Love's ghost wakes._

_You know by now it's not _her _you're waking up, _the sword murmured, with affection. Lucien swallowed against the lump in his throat.

"Yeah," he said, hoping he just looked like he was talking to himself, as he walked past a group of servants busily taking apart a large four-poster bed inside someone's bedroom. "I know it's not going to be her. Do… you know who it is I'm waking up?"

_I don't even know how to begin answering that question, Lucien._

He frowned, wondering what the hell that was supposed to mean. He rounded a bend, nearly to the throne room, and saw-

"Tamlin!"

Tamlin, who was actually leaving Amarantha's throne room, turned to look at him. Lucien's heart leapt to see his friend by himself, then dropped as he watched Tamlin glance back and forth, furtively, as though looking to see if he'd be punished if they spoke. There were people in the throne room behind him, more groups of hushed conversation, but Amarantha was not on her throne. He couldn't see Rhysand either, which was… actually sort of a relief.

"Lucien." Tamlin smiled at him, really smiled. Even though he seemed thinner and faded and pale, that smile was Tamlin, through and through. After a year and a half, Tamlin seemed… smaller, than when he'd left. Diminished. But something shone in his eyes, still, and Lucien thought, _no matter how many times he gets hit, Tamlin always gets back up, sooner or later. Sometimes later, and after he's destroyed half his house again, but he gets back up._

"What's going on?" Lucien asked. "I just returned from the Autumn Court and no one is… here? And the soldiers... It looks like she's going somewhere."

"She is," Tamlin murmured, cutting his eyes to the side as a servant passed them. _What, is he not allowed to speak to his friends any longer?_

_No, _the sword replied. _He had undergone something. I can feel fear at the edges of his mind, worry that she will hurt you. I think, blood-mate, you are being held over him as a threat._

Lucien swallowed back his distaste and tried to ignore it.

Tamlin relaxed again, when the servant had gone. "She's… decided on her invasion."

"Oh. The Spring Court?" Lucien asked, staring at all the boxes with a new understanding. "It's the closest to the Wall and she already has troops there, but no one's been able to figure out how to bring the Wall down, so I don't-"

"I don't actually know," Tamlin said, shrugging slightly. He actually didn't have so many bruises this time, and Lucien caught that gleam in his eyes again. The spirit underneath everything he'd been through in nearly a year and a half. "She won't tell anyone. Rhys has been trying to learn, but… I think only she and the Attor know for sure."

"I wouldn't want to ask _the Attor,_" Lucien muttered, shuddering. "I came back to see her. Because I agreed to, and I think it's probably faster to do what she says the first time and not make her think of me as _something to capture._" Tamlin flinched. "I… sorry. Also, he's _Rhys _now?"

Tamlin grinned, a little shamefaced, and there - there was that look on his face again. "He's been Rhys for a while. He used to be Rhys when we were young, too, you know. He and I were friends for a long time when we were younger."

"Sure. Right." There was a change to the way Tamlin had always smelled, a bit of darkness and starlight and cold, clear nights underneath his usual green plants and renewal. If she was making them go to bed together, that made sense, but… this was different than what he would have expected.

Lucien could almost understand it. Almost...

"Now's a good time to come back," Tamlin said thoughtfully, arms crossed. "She's hardly even touched Rhys and I for days, she's so busy with this invasion. She hasn't even made us stay in our room, we've been pretty free to just wander around under here."

_If they hadn't been touched, why did Tamlin smell like Rhys?_

"That's good news, at least," Lucien said, but he was distracted, hardly listening. Trying to figure out that change in scent, the way Tamlin smelled like the middle of the night in late spring, just after the final frost. When it was finally warm enough to go out at night and lay on your back, looking up at the stars in all their brilliance while dew settled onto the newly green grass-

"Oh, fuck," Lucien said out loud.

_Oh, fun, _his sword murmured.

"What?"

"You aren't, Tam. Tell me you aren't. Not with _him_."

"I'm not… what?" But Tamlin knew what he was asking, his face went red and he looked away, staring down the hall. After a long pause where Lucien simply fixed his stare on him, he sighed and threw his hands up in the air. "It's not like we _wanted _to."

"You're both _High Lords_, Tamlin. You are supposed to be the literal embodiment of… fertility, or something. No one ever fully explained that to me." Lucien narrowed his eyes; as always, his good eye narrowed as far as he wanted, while his metal eye couldn't quite match it. He knew that it mostly just made him look like he felt very skeptical, rather than the intimidating expression he tried for. "I'm not sure how fertility works with _two male High Lords. _What happens if you-... get free, and he goes back to being what he was at the Night Court?"

Tamlin set his jaw and looked away, staring fixedly at a spot on the wall. "I am not ever leaving her," Tamlin said very carefully, "and neither is my… is Rhys." Lucien felt a stab of guilt as he remembered that Tamlin couldn't even think about escape without pain and fear any longer.

"You know what I mean, Tam. This... you and Rhysand... it's not going to have a happy ending. It didn't have a happy ending the first time, either, did it?"

"I will not be thinking about that," Tamlin said with gritted teeth.

"I think you just don't want to think about consequences or the future... again. You _never want to think about the consequences, Tamlin!_"

"I don't have a future," Tamlin growled. "I don't _have one, _Lucien."

"Yes," Lucien said coldly. "You _do_. You said that fifty years ago, too, Tamlin, and we ran out of time because of it. Because you didn't… you didn't even want to _try._"

Tamlin did not look at him, keeping his eyes on a spot on the wall. "That was different."

"Was it?"

"Yes! I…" Tamlin trailed off, frowning, a look on his face Lucien knew well. _Can't think of what to say. Tamlin never has the words. _"I take it day by day," He said, finally. "I just try to adjust, get used to it."

"What, is that what Rhysand told you to do?"

"How else do you survive it, Luce?" Tamlin's voice cracked, just a little. "I don't know what else to do any longer. Every time I stand up to her she finds out, and it's worse. Every single thing she does to me gets worse. Do you have another idea for me?"

_Yes. But I can't tell you what it is._

"No. You're right. I'm sorry, Tam. I'm just… with _Rhysand?_"

_Could you have possibly thought of anyone _worse_ to get a mating bond with?_

_People find things in the dark they can't in the light, _his sword murmured lovingly at his hip.

"Yes," Tamlin said flatly. "With him. He's different than we thought."

"That's what they say about you, too, you know."

Tamlin finally quirked a smile. It was faint, there and then gone, but a smile anyway. "I know. Maybe they're right about us both."

Lucien sighed. "We can deal with this later, Tam. I just think… no. We'll deal with it later. I need to go… present myself to the queen. Get it over with. If she's not in court, then where is she?"

"Remember when we never called her that?" Tamlin asked faintly. "You and I. When we swore we'd never call her queen." He gestured vaguely down a hallway. "I'll lead you to her. I think she's talking to Rhys right now."

Tamlin knew Under the Mountain by now as well as he knew all his own lands. Lucien followed him, trying to think. Obviously he wasn't an _idiot. _He'd heard the rumors, and seen for himself how Rhys had kept Tamlin from being executed. Knew he'd given up his own people.

He'd seen the way Tamlin and Rhys looked at each other the day Tamlin had nearly been executed, had seen the way Rhys put an arm around Tamlin at the end. It wasn't the idea that they had found something in each other that bothered him. He had sort of expected that - Tamlin had treated going to bed with someone like a validation of his worth as a person since long before he and Lucien had ever become friends.

But… the scent underneath Tamlin's, the cold, clear starlight that seemed to almost line his skin, the sense of it shining out of his eyes, should have been impossible. Two High Lords shouldn't be able to mate. They'd throw the others off balance, unsettle them. There wasn't a court in Prythian that didn't have it out for Rhys after one thing or another. Tamlin as a potential weakness would only put a target on _both_ their backs.

Lucien would have to be four steps ahead of every other court, because Cauldron knew _Tamlin _had no idea how to scheme effectively. He was an open book; they'd read what he felt for Rhys all over his face. There was a reason Tamlin mostly kept to himself down here in the south, and it wasn't just that he was uncomfortable with the protocol of the other High Lords. Tamlin struggled to be anything other than honest.

And he'd gotten himself mated to Prythian's most famous inveterate liar.

It was Amarantha's bedroom Tamlin led him to, and Lucien felt an instinctive twist of revulsion, knowing what he knew about what went on in this room. He was startled by the way it didn't _look _like a torture chamber, beyond some hooks he could see up in the ceiling that he recognized from what his own family had done to Jesminda.

It just looked like a room. An enormous room, full of gorgeous warm wood furniture, but still just a room. Lucien felt his jaw drop as he looked towards her bed and saw an iron bar with silver shackles hanging off of it fixed just above the headboard. "By the Cauldron," He whispered, not even aware he had spoken.

Tamlin's eyes followed to where Lucien had looked, and then he flushed bright red, shifting uncomfortably, a strange look coming over his face. He moved slightly away from Lucien.

Amarantha had indeed been speaking with Rhys, sitting at a small table across from him, her head tilted to the side flirtatiously, while Rhys only stared at her with that same maddening empty smile. "Had them custom ordered_,_" She was saying as they entered. "I think you'll love seeing them on him."

Rhys's eyes went to them, and the curve of his smile widened, just slightly, seeing Lucien. "Oh thank the Cauldron, someone else for her to talk at," He said smoothly. "And here I thought I'd be trapped with her _aggressively inappropriate_ conversational topics forever."

Amarantha turned around.

"Your Majesty?" Tamlin said, in a softer, weaker voice than he had spoken to Lucien with. "Lucien Vanserra has returned, as planned."

Lucien wondered which part was the act - the stronger Tamlin in the halls, or the broken one here.

Amarantha's eyes lit up. Lucien felt his own metal eye whirring. Through it, he could see that Rhys was different, too. Underneath the darkness and starlight, Lucien could see a sense of things growing, renewal and hope, wisteria letting off its sweet scent in the middle of the night. The return of the world to life. If he got any closer, he thought, he'd _smell _Tamlin on the Night Lord, too.

_Whether or not she has them in her bed has nothing to do with what they're doing together by this point, _he thought, and fought back a repeat of his earlier distaste. What _he _thought about Rhys didn't matter. This was his lord's mate, and that was how it was. Now he needed to start figuring out how to keep them _both_ alive.

"Lucien Vanserra! Regent of my Spring Lands," Amarantha said brightly. "Come in!" Tamlin's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. _My _Spring Lands.

_What a bitch, _the sword muttered, and Lucien put a hand on the hilt to quiet it down.

"Your Majesty," Lucien said, bowing low the way she liked them to, his eyes flickering over to Rhys, who only casually raised one hand in return.

"To what do I owe this _immense physical pleasure, _Lucien?" Amarantha stood, Jurian's eye swivelling to look right at Lucien, to look right through him. He thought he saw it narrow in thought and fought back nausea.

"I gave my word I would return after my visit to the Autumn Court," Lucien said in a carefully controlled diplomat's voice. "And so I am here. But I find your court… changed, and full of soldiers."

"How _was_ your visit to the Autumn Court? Your meeting with your dear, dear mother? Did you spend much _time_ there? Make any other visits?" Amarantha spoke with a throaty triumph that told him she already knew how the Autumn Court visit had gone. Eris must have told her.

_What. a. bitch, _the sword hissed. _Promise me we'll kill her one day._

_We'd end up at the back of a very long line if we wanted to try._

"My mother refused to see me," He said out loud, ignoring a twinge of the old pain in his chest. Honestly, he didn't know why it even still bothered him any longer. Tamlin put a hand on his shoulder and he shook it off, shaking his head at his friend. "She is still grieving my father's loss and chose to respect his wishes."

Eris had enjoyed that too much. He'd enjoyed it_ so_ much he'd insisted Lucien stay for dinner, and then spent the whole time gloating at him where the two of them ate alone at Beron's large dining room table. Except that, once or twice, Lucien had caught Eris's expression change into something softer. Once or twice, his questions had been more personal, less insulting. Once or twice, Lucien had wondered if he hadn't insisted he stay just to... see him, his littlest brother, again.

They'd even laughed together once, at some old joke from childhood. Eris had caught himself then, and the rest of the meal had been cold and uncaring. But Lucien had seen his expression change, for just that moment, into the Eris he remembered when he was young.

"Isn't that _lovely. _And yet you must have stayed for some time. Renewing your knowledge of your old stomping grounds? And yes, things are terribly busy here. We are preparing a raid."

"You're always raiding," Lucien said, wondering why this conversation felt like a trap.

"I've decided to personally attend this one," Amarantha said cheerfully, stepping towards him. Tamlin moved, just a little, placing himself between Lucien and Amarantha. Her eyes slowly slid over to meet Tamlin's, the smile dropping off her face. Behind her, Lucien saw Rhys push his chair back and stand up.

Tamlin hurriedly moved away, eyes down to the floor. _Maybe the stronger Tamlin in the hallway was the false one, _Lucien thought. "The mortal lands?"

"Later. I'm still working on bringing down that damned wall. No, this invasion will be different. I've just discovered an ideal location to build my new and permanent court," Amarantha said, her voice dropping a bit, into a husky, seductive purr. "However, the residents there are likely to approve of it less than I'd like and I believe a show of force is in order, if I'm to bring them under my heel."

"What place isn't already under your heel?" Lucien asked, hesitantly. He thought of Viviane, the hidden city even he hadn't seen around that mountain the Winter Court, and shivered.

"I've tired of living in the dark," Amarantha continued as though he hadn't spoken. "I've decided to go somewhere with fresh air, and maybe a bit of sun on occasion. Rhys is in dear need of some color to his skin, after all, isn't he?" She reached out, running her fingers down the side of Lucien's face, tracing the scars she'd made when she'd dug out his eye. "My soldiers are already beginning to winnow their way there, the bulk will already be in place when we arrive."

He held himself very, very still. His heart pounded in his chest, a rush of fear, the need to get her hands _away from his face _before she took the other eye. He had to physically force his hands into fists to keep them down at his sides.

_He had screamed, screamed until his throat was raw, hands clasped over the empty socket where his eye had been. He remembered, only vaguely, wordless sobbing animal sounds as he flailed. What most people did not know is that he had not scarred so badly because of Amarantha - it had been his own fingernails that dragged the wound open nearly to his jaw, the desperate clawing to try and somehow undo it that had made the whole thing so much worse. They'd beaten him nearly to death, too, and had to drag him away when he couldn't walk under his own power. _

_He'd been dumped unceremoniously in Tamlin's entryway, still sobbing at the pain and the loss, to be found by servants who had called to Tamlin for help._

_Tamlin had sent for a healer. Amarantha had declared she would keep his eye and Lucien knew it was gone. He was begging, pleading, and Tamlin spoke to him in a constant slow monotone, the way you calm down frightened horses. Tamlin had held his hands in his hands, gripped onto them so tightly Lucien could almost focus on that pain instead. His voice was calming, reassuring, but behind his own misery and agony Lucien had heard the way Tamlin's voice had rung with panic and rage and power. He'd pulled Lucien's hands away from his face, finally, to see how bad the wound really was. It had been a struggle, but one Tamlin had eventually won._

_Tamlin had stumbled away, thrown up all over the path, and then come back to him and simply picked him up to carry him inside._

_ It had been Tamlin who had held him down while the healer worked, taken Lucien's desperate clawing in stride, ignored the scratches he'd left all over his arms, told the healer to worry about Lucien first. It had been Tamlin who had slept on the floor next to his bed while he recovered, Tamlin who had worked with him as he learned a new way to move through the world. _

_And i__t had been Tamlin who had brought him to the Dawn Court, still needing a hand at his elbow to keep him from accidentally walking into things on his blind side, to meet an old acquaintance who had made for him a new eye. _

"My victory is done," Amarantha said softly, tracing the scars like Lucien was simply a curiosity. "Prythian is mine. I will never let loose those High Lords' powers. I have _won._" Rhys snorted in response somewhere behind her, but Lucien couldn't take his eyes off the mad delight in hers. "This land is mine. _Mine. _And I want to see what I am ruling."

"Stop touching him," Tamlin said quietly. "You've hurt Lucien enough."

"Have I?" She asked, looking back at him with that sudden drop in cheer. "Is your protection going to save his life, this time, the way you saved his eye?"

"When I tore Lucien's brothers apart, nothing was left but blood and bones," Tamlin said evenly, and there was a hint of light around the edges of his skin, warm sunshine breaking through a canopy of leaves, still touched with starlight from the night before. His voice was calm, but there was a rage underneath. "And all they did was threaten Rhys." Lucien saw, from behind them, Rhys's head jerk slightly in surprise, eyes on Tamlin's back. "Would you like to see if I can break it again for my best friend?"

Lucien's eyes dropped to Tamlin's hands, which flexed in and out of fists. He _saw _the ripple under his skin as he pushed against Amarantha's magic. Saw the way Tamlin ground his teeth against the resulting pain and simply ignored it. There was a hint of claws at his fingertips.

Amarantha's smile became brittle, and she let her hand fall. "Perhaps I _have_ hurt him enough," She said thoughtfully. Tamlin let his hands relax. "Not you, though."

"No." His voice was softer, and he smiled slightly, but the hint of light did not fade. "You'll never hurt me enough, will you?"

Rhys made another sound, this one an almost-stifled noise of pure jealousy. Lucien could have smiled - if the way their scent had changed hadn't given it away, that would have. _Jealous someone else is looking at him._

"Where are you invading?" Lucien asked, even though he didn't want to know the answer.

"North," Amarantha said.

"How far north?" Rhysand's voice was carefully controlled, but he couldn't quite hold back the surprise in his face. "The Solar Courts?"

"Just about as north as I can go," She said, shooting him her most seductive, wicked smile. Lucien fought the urge to vomit.

"Hewn City?" Rhysand asked, and his voice was low, worried. "The Court of Nightmares? You built this place after that, it makes sense… But Keir is the Steward there, he-"

"No," Amarantha interrupted, and Lucien _watched _a shiver of pleasure go through her and stepped back. She'd wanted an audience for this, for whatever she was about to say. She'd waited to tell them until he was here, hadn't she?

_Eris must have sent word I was coming. She knew I was coming here._

_Can I call Eris a bitch, too?_ The sword asked.

_N-... you know what, yes. Yes you can._

"No, Rhys, not Hewn City. I've had a lovely conversation with a couple of new friends of mine."

"Then where?" Tamlin asked. "What friends?" Lucien watched him move to Rhys, putting a hand on his arm. The two shared an expression, and, Lucien thought, probably thoughts, too.

_High Lords as mates. This would end up the world's biggest fucking mess, if they ever got away from Amarantha._

"I hope you miss home, Rhys." Amarantha's eyes were locked on his. Lucien took a few steps back towards the door. None of them seemed to notice. This toxic atmosphere was only between the three of them, this absurd mockery of a relationship between three people. "Because I know your secret. That little Illyrian I kept? I know his real name is Cassian. I know he is your friend. And I know_ exactly_ where he is right now."

Rhys's face went white.

Lucien saw something he'd never seen in Rhys's face before, in all the time they'd been spitting insults at each other.

Lucien had come along after what had happened between Tamlin and Rhys's families and the hate had already been there. He'd only known Rhys as an endless parade of one-liners and his own over-inflated ego, vague hostility and constant schemes. A High Lord so certain of his own immense power that nothing and no one was even the slightest bit of a threat. More two-faced in his friendship with other High Lords than the entire Autumn Court combined.

What he saw, now, though, was Rhys quake in unshakeable terror. Centuries dropped off his face, and Lucien could see where there had been a child once, a frightened child. The whites showed around those violet eyes. Lucien had a sense of shadows and darkness and a cold, cold wind finding its way into the room.

This time it was Rhys that Tamlin moved in front of, stood himself between his mate and the threat.

"We're going to your _home_, Rhys my love," Amarantha purred.

"Home," Rhys echoed. Tamlin shifted, gradually, until he was almost totally blocking Rhys from Amarantha's view, the brilliance in his skin shining brighter, pressing against Amarantha's magic. He saw Rhys's head drop forward slowly, until his forehead rested against Tamlin's back, between his shoulder blades. Rhys's eyes slowly closed. He saw the Night Lord's knees start to buckle, then brace themselves back up.

_Fox watch heart of midnight break_

"Yes, my darling. Velaris."

Darkness grew in the corners of the room, stars about to fall and crush them all, sucking away the air. That cold wind picked up, and Lucien took a few more steps back as it whipped his hair around his face. If Amarantha understood that Rhys's fear might be more dangerous than his fury ever had been, she did not show it.

"Oh, Lucien," Amarantha purred. "Don't go yet. I have one more thing to say to you. I know you've been to Velaris, too."

Lucien froze.

_The fire, _the sword whispered. _You have to get back and warn them. Warn the pretty angel. Warn the Morrigan. Warn my cousin. You have to go, you have to go, you have to go you have to GO-_

"You can't go to Velaris," Rhys said, in a strangely distant voice, without raising his head. "You don't know where it is. I… I made sure…"

"I do now," Amarantha replied, sweetly. "Thanks to your _friend_. So much for loyalty, hm?"

"You can't get in." Rhys's voice was still empty of emotion.

"Don't worry, Rhys darling, I've got that covered."

The whirlwind around them picked up speed, the pressure of the darkness felt like it would push Lucien into the floor. He was almost to the door. Still, none of them looked at him. The light limning Tamlin 's skin was the only brightness in the room now.

"Go back to Spring, fox," Amarantha continued, her eyes still on Rhys, the wind whipping her multitude of braids around her head. "Go back to Rosehall. I'll recall you to my court in Velaris when I have it ready."

Lucien did not even try to answer, or bow, or pretend at normalcy. The darkness had nearly overtaken the room, the wind blew so hard he could barely stand, and Lucien ran.


	38. Chapter 38

Rhys's mind twisted in around itself, in pain and fear for his family and guilt. He could feel Tamlin somewhere in the back of it, trying to find him, but Rhys buried himself in the dark, his heart pounding in his throat, only vaguely aware that he could still feel the warmth of Tamlin's skin against his forehead through his shirt, where he still stood just behind him, could see the bright of him against his closed eyes.

He'd felt this way three times before. Once, when his father had opened a box to discover his mother and sister's heads, the bloody mess, the last look of horror on both their faces. _Cauldron, what has Tamlin done?! _Second, when he had stood outside Tamlin's door at night, ready to slaughter him, and realized that for all his grief and hate, he could not kill him, not Tamlin, for reasons he had never understood. _I can't kill you, you son of a bitch, I can't, I don't want you to die and leave me-_

The third time, when Amarantha's curse took hold, and he'd felt her rip away nearly all of his power, felt it slipping through his fingers faster than he could grasp it. The absolute terror and pain of it, feeling the core of himself being torn out and put into her, too far for him to ever reach to bring it back. The screams of every High Lord, ringing in unison, as they all fell apart. Only Tamlin had seemed less than totally surprised.

But this.

This was not being inflicted _on_ _him. _This was so much worse than that.

_She knew where Velaris was. It was over. It was over and nothing had mattered at all._

He felt, deep within his mind, the sense of a green and verdant sunshine, the perfect spring day. The sun shining through leaves, trying to break through and find him inside his fear. Along the tether that connected them, he felt Tamlin's voice more than heard it. _Come back to me._

Amarantha was talking to him still, taunting him, but he couldn't hear her. He couldn't hear her over the roar in his mind. The only light left in the room came from Tamlin's skin. The rest was darkness, and wind, and fury.

He could not hurt her. He'd been commanded never to hurt her, he had to _defend her with his life,_ and his power, churning within him, had nowhere to go. He heard a rumble, from somewhere, thunder Under the Mountain. The room shook around them, books falling off bookshelves. If she hadn't bound up nearly everything he had within herself, he would have brought the mountain down on all their heads right then and there.

_Come back to me, _Tamlin repeated into his mind along the mating bond. Rhys forced himself to try and relax. He lifted his head, just slightly, pressing his mouth to the back of Tamlin's neck, briefly. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked up.

"-have a plan for you," Amarantha was saying, sweetly. "You don't have to worry, Rhys. You'll be right there to see the show." She had moved in front of them, while the storm raged in his mind. He wondered how Tamlin had broken her magic, how he had been able to kill Lucien's brothers back in the garden. Wished he could do it again, right now.

"If you hurt them-" He growled.

"Oh, Rhys darling," She said, and stepped forward, simply pushing herself between he and Tamlin. Tamlin stumbled back slightly, his own face not even masking his rage, though some of his light dimmed. The air smelled like crushed leaves. She pressed the length of her body against Rhys's, pressed her mouth to his cold one. She murmured against his frozen lips, "I'm going to hurt them _all. _In every possible way. And you'll get to _watch_."

Rhys let out a sound, the anger in him needing somewhere, anywhere to go. He tried to pull back, but her hand around his neck was like iron, and he couldn't even move an inch.

"I feel how much you hate me right now," She said, desire lighting her up. "Did you think if you distracted me I'd never think to ask where all your _people were_, in that great vast land you live in? Did you think I'd never be suspicious that my pet liar might be lying to _me_?"

Rhys just stared her down, as the darkness around them blew an ice cold wind, blowing over chairs he could hear clattering but could not see. Tamlin, he noticed, had stood his feet further apart to brace himself, hands in fists. _Can't win this one on brute strength,_ Rhys thought only to himself. "You are only emptiness yourself, aren't you?" Rhysand's voice was cold, a High Lord offended. The fear was gone and in its place was an endless well of glacial rage. "You can't even find rock bottom. There isn't one. You'll never fill yourself up. You'll always be empty. Whatever you take from us, it will never fill you up."

Amarantha laughed, a brilliant lunacy in the sound. "I guess I'll just keep filling myself with other things, hm? Tamlin," She said over her shoulder, to the golden-haired man behind them, half-obscured by the darkness Rhys's anger had conjured. "How much do _you _hate me?"

"You can't even imagine," Tamlin replied, hair blowing around his eyes, his own voice choked. He stepped forward, grabbing her by one arm and spinning her around to face him. "I don't even have the _words_."

"Words have never exactly been your specialty, though, have they, Tamlin?" Amarantha teased. With her eyes off of him, Rhys felt he could breathe again, taking a couple of steps back, trying to calm the darkness, the windswept void of his helplessness that had the three of them at the center. Amarantha, unbothered, her hair whipped around her by the breeze, pressed up against Tamlin now and Rhys felt a spike of jealous rage.

_Stop touching him. Stop touching him, he's mine, stop-_

Tamlin grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to push her away, holding her at arm's length. He growled, low in the back of his throat, as though even now the beast might find its way back out. Rhys saw a shimmer of claws in his fingers before his grip tightened against the pain. "Amarantha-"

"How well you _protect him,_" Amarantha said softly. "What a _protector_ you turned out to be."

Tamlin froze, stricken. "Stop it." His words were a barely-breathed whisper.

"How well you've kept your mate safe," Amarantha smiled, a flash of white teeth.

"You have to stop." The light that had edged his skin simply blinked out, all at once. The scent of spring that had lingered in the air was gone.

"I'm going to tear his home down to its foundations and kill everyone he loves and _you cannot protect him at all. _If your father had simply sold you to me, Rhys would never have felt an ounce of the pain he's feeling now. The High Lords would be free. This is all _your_ fault, isn't it? All that hurt in him, all his pain and the things he is going to lose... it's all because _you said no to me._"

"Stop!" Tamlin shouted, moving as though he would attack her, only to have her net close in, groaning, letting go of her.

_Don't listen to her, _Rhys pleaded down the mating bond, and saw Tamlin's green eyes meet his own, narrowed against the pain. _Everything she says is a lie. _

_We're going to save them, _Tamlin said back, with absolute conviction. _I'll be with you. I'll be beside you._

The wind was calming, the darkness beginning to recede.

Amarantha stepped back up to Tamlin, pressing a finger to his lips. "You're both so beautiful when you're hopeless. Do you hate me so much?"

"Yes," Tamlin said hoarsely.

"So _incredibly_ much," Rhys said.

"Then I suggest we see how well you use it in bed," Amarantha, sliding one arm up around behind Tamlin's neck. "Come here, Rhys."

Closing his eyes against the fear and hate and disgust that roiled inside of him, Rhys stepped slowly up behind her. She slid her other arm back and around behind his neck, so they were both pressed against her, one on either side. "Come on, my captive High Lords. Fuck me like you mean it. _Enjoy every minute._"

Tamlin took in a deep breath, and then his eyes drifted from her to Rhys, just behind her. _I'm sorry, Rhys. I'm so sorry._

_She's going to kill them all. My family._

_She's not. I'm going to fuck her until she breaks in half._

_If that was possible, I would have solved Prythian's whole problem all by myself about fifty years ago._

The last of the darkness faded from the corners of the room. He leaned down, keeping his eyes locked on Tamlin's, and kissed her shoulder. He was somewhat gratified to see his own jealousy echoed in Tamlin's eyes as he watched.

_One day she won't be the voice in our heads, Spring. _

They all but threw her onto her bed, and threw themselves at her. Rhys shed his clothes in a fury. Tamlin was with him, on him, a murmur against him and behind him, a calming spring day to his raging midnight storm.

"Oh, Rhys, try to have fun," Amarantha purred, sitting up on one elbow to look up at him as he slid his shirt off.

"I'd rather rip you limb from limb," Rhys said, leaning down to kiss her, sliding a hand behind her back along her warm skin. She arched into him and Rhys briefly wished he were dead.

"Just like I ripped apart Tamlin's mortal lover?" She said, in the softest lover's voice.

Rhysand felt the awful lurch in Tamlin's mind all the way down the bond, felt Tamlin bury himself in guilt. For a moment, both of them were darkness.

_She's going to take my family away. Everything gets taken away. It's over._

_I couldn't even protect one single mortal girl._

* * *

Lucien was in a panic.

He ran through the tunnels, pushing past soldiers and the endless closed doors. The thunder rumbled behind him, and courtiers were peeking out their doors, whispering to each other, worried as the mountain itself seemed to shake. He threw himself through the hallways like the hounds of hell were on his heels. His heart was pounding, he nearly tripped over his own feet, hair flying out behind him.

At some point he'd dropped the careful glamour that kept people from realizing he'd been traveling, but if the soldiers even noticed, no one so much as stopped him. No one even seemed to look at him. No one except a pair of shadows that briefly detached from the wall into two dark-skinned women, who watched him impassively, and then faded back again.

When he stumbled back out into the strawberry patch outside the tunnel door to Spring, he came to a skittering stop. She knew where Rhys's friends were, and she was going there. She'd won, she was right about that. She had the whole land of Prythian in her grasp, and the southern border of Spring was full of thousands of her soldiers, waiting for her to find a way to take down the Wall.

And still she was going to take the time to raze Rhys's world to the ground. She was out of her mind in a way Lucien had never truly understood until just then. Even knowing as he did that she had cost Hybern a war with her obsession over torturing Jurian as slowly as possible to avenge her sister's death... even knowing that, he hadn't understood the depths of her madness until now.

If the Suriel's riddles did not work, they were all going to be under her thumb, forever. But the Suriels spoke true. They always spoke true. And Lucien had every piece of the puzzle except for Cassian. Azriel had said _Cas_ was the key, and they were still in Valeris. If he hurried, maybe he could get Feyre and everything else there before Amarantha did.

When he got back to Rosehall, it looked more abandoned than ever. The front yard had been trampled by traveling soldiers on horseback, and he tried not to look at the ruin they'd made of Tamlin's rosebushes. No one was here, though. No servants. No soldiers.

They should be down by the border, now. He could pull this off if he were careful.

He didn't have time to be careful. Amarantha had said her soldiers were already winnowing north.

_What are you doing? _His sword asked, a note of concern ringing its usual song.

"I don't know," He said, thinking of the look on Rhysand's face. "I don't know but I think I have to beat her to Velaris."

He'd hidden everything in Feyre's mausoleum, with her body. He'd have to get her body to Velaris without being seen and into somewhere out of the way, without people wondering why he was just… carting around a very well preserved dead mortal and a bag of random antiques while going to see the people who ran the Night Court in Rhysand's absence.

_That might cause some raised eyebrows, _His sword noted.

"I have to beat her there," He muttered, as he skidded to a stop in front of the door to the mausoleum. Even the cemetery had been trampled by the soldiers, but thankfully no one was here. He wondered if the servants were even still _in_ Rosehall, without even his glamour to attend. He hoped they'd all run off to safer courts.

"If she wins," He said out loud, as he unlocked the mausoleum with shaking hands, "There is no safer court to run to. There is no safe place. She'll find them all - she'll find Viviane, she'll find that female with her baby, she'll hunt down Tarquin, she'll find them all."

_Then I suggest we don't let her win, _the sword replied.

"I have one trick left," Lucien said, as he pushed open the massive mausoleum door and went inside, lighting the faelights as he walked. "Just one."

Feyre, laying on the slab, as beautiful as the day she died but for the black threads that marred her body where they had sewn her back together. He looked at her hands, clasped over her stomach, where he'd moved them. His heart lurched with it, his love for her, the love he'd never said a thing about. She'd been meant to save Tamlin, after all. And Lucien had been glad for it, even if he'd intended to pine after her until she died a mortal death soon enough.

He'd never told her how much she reminded him of Jesminda - fiery and funny and as stubborn as a drunk mule even on her good days, the sort of person who would be given an order and immediately make it her entire life's goal to disobey. Tamlin had loved the _idea _of her, but Lucien didn't think he'd really… appreciated her, for the hellcat she was. There hadn't been time. Her golden-brown hair lay around her, as if she were only sleeping and would soon wake up.

_Try to remember it's not Feyre you're waking up, _the sword said, a note of sympathy. _Remember that it's not her. She's been dead for nearly a year and a half, Lucien. Her soul is beyond you, now, and I'm sure she feels peace._

"I know," He said, hoarsely, unable to stop staring at her in this moment when he needed to do anything _but _hesitate. "I know."

_Do you, really?_

"Yes. I think. Mostly. Oh, Cauldron, how do I get everything to Valeris?"

"You ask for help," A woman's voice said behind him, and he turned to see the Morrigan there, arms crossed. Her golden hair was pulled into a low bun, and her brown eyes blazed in her face. It occurred to him that she must have been a sight on the battlefield during the war in all her armor, something to rally loyalty or engender fear… depending on which side of the fight you were on.

"How… how did you-"

"I've been waiting for a while. I got bored and scouted the soldiers at the border to see if anything had changed there. They're restless but about the same. I found someone in the house, they said you'd gone for a ride, then headed straight Under the Mountain to see her. Everyone here is terrified. Did you? See her?"

"Yes," Lucien said softly.

"Did you see… Rhys?" There was another look in her eyes, then. Longing, and a fierce, all-encompassing love. "Under there?"

"Yes."

"What is he like, now?"

"Doesn't know when to shut up."

"So the same, then."

"Also our lords are mates. Morrigan, we've got to get-"

"Call me Mor." She stepped up, looking around behind him into the mausoleum. Then, suddenly, she jerked back and looked at him. "Our lords are _what_?"

"Mates." Lucien did not quite spit the word, but he wasn't far off. "I could smell it on them both when I was there. Tamlin didn't deny it."

Mor whistled, long and low. "Well… shit."

"That would pretty well encapsulate my thoughts, yes."

"Half of me is glad Rhys finally found someone who _has _to put up with him forever. Half of me… doesn't have time to deal with this right now."

"Probably not. Whether or not they're mates isn't going to matter much if they're bedding Amarantha for eternity."

She took in a breath. "I am pretending you did not say that, and filing this under deal with later. What are you doing in a grave?"

"See for yourself," Lucien said, and Mor looked around him, putting a hand up to her mouth as she looked at the woman lying on the slab.

"By the Cauldron, she was beautiful, wasn't she? Amarantha did this to her?"

"Yes. while Tamlin and Rhysand and I were forced to watch. It's funny, you can't even see it, when she's… gone. She had this fire in her-" Lucien fought back the sudden tightening of his throat, the tears that threatened his good eye while his metal one whirred, dry and undeterred. "I would have followed her anywhere." He thought of his night with the Spirit of the Glass, the futures and presents and pasts that slid around and into and through them while he had moved in her. "I think in some times, I _did_ follow her anywhere. Mor, we have to get everything in this room to Valeris as quickly as we can."

"I gathered that," Mor said quietly. "Why?"

"Because this is our only chance."

"This?" She raised an eyebrow, looking at Feyre's body again. "Lucien, I read your letter, but this is a dead body. She's very pretty, but she is also very, _very _dead. Your letter did not mention the fate of our land depends on a very well-preserved corpse."

"She is _also_ our last best hope to get ourselves the fuck out of this nightmare."

"Sign me up for getting us out of this," She said, stepping closer. "Why the hurry now? Azriel said you've been at this for… a year. More."

"Because _Amarantha knows where you are,_" Lucien said, and watched the same progression of face paling to white and the rise of an all-consuming fear in her face that he'd seen in Rhys's. It was no less awful to watch this time, although at least darkness didn't start to grow when Mor was upset. "Amarantha knows where Valeris is. And she's coming to you. She said her soldiers are already headed north."

"We're warded," Mor said softly. "She can't find her way in. She can't find us."

"Amarantha learned where Valeris is from _Cassian, _and she seemed pretty confident about getting in."

"I… he'd never. He'd never tell her," Mor said defensively. "You don't know him. He'd never give that kind of information up! We all made a vow that we'd die first!" There was a silence. "Oh, no. That weird fire. They passed out, they were out for… hours… did he tell her then, somehow? Cas can't speak in minds like that."

"I don't think he _told her_," Lucien said. "My sword tried to explain it to me, but I can't… keep my mind on it. It just floats out again when I try. Do you have them somewhere safe?"

Mor pressed her lips together. "Nowhere safer than Valeris, until today."

_Cassian will do worse than just tell her their location before this is done, _his sword murmured. Lucien was glad that Mor could not hear it.

"Listen to me. Are they… secure?"

She shook her head, slowly, staring around the inside of the mausoleum. "No. We didn't… Az asked us to, but he _hates _locks. When he woke all the way up he didn't remember asking and he… the look on his face… I couldn't. Cas was furious at us for even_ thinking_ about it. Even Amren couldn't bear it. She'd never tell you, but Az has always been her favorite. She's off reading up, trying to figure out what the fire was in the first place…"

"We need to go back soon, and we need to get this done. I think whatever happened to Cassian isn't over."

Mor slowly nodded, looking at the objects he'd laid around the room. The necklace Feyre still wore around her neck, the lantern… "What _is _all this?"

"You read the letter. It's all the riddles," Lucien answered. "Here." He loaded Mor up with the lantern, the book of childrens' faerie tales, the Spirit of the Glass's eye.

_Feyre's body, perfectly preserved._

_The sword at his side, with its bloody song._

_The necklace worn to celebrate a terrible death._

_The eye of a spirit whose vengeance ruined a land for eternity._

_A book of tales of the forgotten gods._

_A lantern from the Autumn Court, that could not be lit by fae hands._

_Somewhere in Valeris, Cassian, who feared no war, who had been tied to her throne._

_Lucien's presence at the announcement of a High Lord's worst fear brought to life._

_And the final piece of the puzzle…_

Lucien gave Mor the last of the objects, and reached over to the slab himself, picking Feyre up into his arms. She felt as though she were only sleeping, her skin still lukewarm, her head dropped to the side and nestled against his neck. If it hadn't been for the strange way her arm hung and her heavy dead weight, he might have felt himself hope she was still alive, still in there somehow.

"The final riddle," he said, grunting slightly with effort, "I've never understood. I still don't quite… but I think I get more of it than I did before."

"What's the final riddle?" Mor asked.

Lucien snorted.

"_Each loses a battle to win the war_

_Bring the first bargain between brothers to bear _

_When beast is gone, stars may soar_

_Let love undo the final prayer."_

Mor frowned, biting her lower lip in thought. "I don't… I don't like that mention of losing battles."

"I'm pretty terrified of the part where it mentions the 'beast is gone', myself."

"Battles… haven't we already lost so many?"

"There's one more bit. A different Suriel… or maybe the same one, I honestly can never tell, also told me to trust the shadows, not the song." Mor's eyes widened. "What? Why are you making that face?"

"That's what Azriel said, when he woke up," She said, turning and walking quickly away from the cemetery. Lucien followed her, Feyre in his arms. "He told us… he said _I am not the shadows. _When we asked him later about it, he didn't remember saying it at all."

Lucien's eyebrows knitted together. "But he's been helping me from the start, as soon as he found out about it."

Mor let out a rush of breath. "I've been gone for almost a full day scouting, Amren's been busy making sure our defenses were refreshed after Az, and Cas, and I have all left the city… Let's get back to Velaris. Now. It's going to take a while to go that far from here, but…"

"I don't know how long we have, Mor. I genuinely don't. But… at least long enough for her to do what I think she's doing to Rhysand and Tamlin right now."

"I am also filing_ that_ under something I cannot deal with right now."

The two of them winnowed away.


	39. Chapter 39

_Azriel slid through shadows like a snake._

_He killed indiscriminately, stepping out of a shadow, a dagger to the neck or the heart or slipped between the ribs like a kiss, and back into the shadows again. Dark work, and his heart thrilled at it. He moved with a purpose, though. There was someone at the other end of this hallway he needed to see._

_Azriel wore his Illyrian leathers, his Siphons glowing a cool sapphire blue. The left side of his chest had a symbol on it, Amarantha's mark. Shadows skittered ahead, reporting on how many there were, fae or mortal, that would soon fall before his knife. He had never been so powerful. He had never been so safe, and free._

_He made it to the end of the hallway, a line of death behind him, and opened the door._

_Within, his other half had already finished his own dark work. Cas looked up at him, spots of blood on his face, a wicked grin. He was crouching next to a dead mortal queen. Azriel felt his heart leap._

_It always did, to see Cas again. This was where he belonged, who he belonged to._

"_Hey, Az," Cas said, pulling his knife out of the latest corpse with a grunt, having to hold the body down with one boot while he did. He wiped the blood off on the dead queen's ornate gown and slid it into the sheath strapped to his thigh. "Where have you been?"_

"_Busy," Azriel replied. The adrenaline of death was in him, around him, the smell of blood in the air. He walked smoothly over to Cas, the shadows in his wake, clinging to his wings. He held out his hand, and Cas took it, pulling himself to standing and looking down at him, still holding on._

"_You've got blood on you," Cas murmured, lifting up his hand to wipe a bit of it away with his thumb._

"_Not mine," Azriel said, his eyes on Cas's hand._

_Cas laughed, biting his own thumb just a bit, watching Azriel's eyes. Then he looked all around them. The Queen's Killer smiled at the breadth of carnage, at the mortal queen's knights all dead or dying, their groans the only sound in this small space. "She'll be happy with this," He said, softly. "We did good work here today. One more country falls to our queen."_

"_Cas… wait." Something was wrong here. _

_"Cauldron, you're beautiful." Cas slid his hand around Azriel's throat, and Az thought briefly of blue smoke, the vanilla smell, trying to warn someone. The thought was faint and far away, a memory he barely had left any longer. Cas looked around at the dead and the dying once more. "A good slaughter always leaves me... wanting." _

_"Cas..." _

_The Queen's Killer raised an eyebrow. "Are you with me?" _

_The sense of wrongness faded when he looked into Cas's eyes, heard the low note of desire in his voice. Azriel felt his own body respond to it, a shiver run up his spine. He knew who he belonged to. _"_I'm always with you," Azriel replied. _

_His shadows, clustered around him, purred audibly. The thing that was bothering him seemed so faint and far away._

_Cas grinned at him, that wide smile he'd known for nearly his entire life. "Then get on your knees." Azriel felt himself smile, bending, going gracefully to his knees on the stone that was slick with blood-_

Azriel was gasping out a shaking breath as he opened his eyes.

He was standing on a ledge, looking down from above on Velaris, the city below. A strange fog slowly receded from his mind. He was wearing his armor, but he didn't know when he had put it on. The last thing he knew, he'd been sitting in the kitchen, eating bread and a wedge of cheese, with Cas sitting beside him watching him with an intense seriousness that had made him feel strangely awkward and uncomfortable. Cas had said something to him. Now… here. He could almost remember the dream, Cas and bodies and blood, but it was gone before he could grasp it.

How had he gotten here?

"Hey," He heard Cas's voice, sounding as if he'd only just woken up himself. Azriel turned to see Cas sitting on a rock behind him, in the new armor that had just been finished, his Siphons flickering. He was sharpening one of his blades with a whetstone. "I've been waiting for you to come back to us."

"Cas… where… why are we up here?"

He could see people below, like insects moving back and forth through their days. Then the lowlands, the farms and the marsh, and beyond that, the bay. Somewhere just over the curve of the horizon, he thought, was the sea. Empty, as always, since Rhys had gone Under the Mountain. The only boats docked were local, small fishing boats.

No one left Velaris any longer. No one came in, either.

"I'm not sure _how _we got here," Cas said calmly. "Flew, I guess. I don't remember that part, I don't think I was necessary for it, we were... stored. But I do know we need to be up here now." He looked back down to his whetstone. "When it's time, this will be better. The air is thinner here. The power is closer."

"What power?" _Something's wrong with Cas. _With his head down and his eyes on something else, it wasn't as easy to tell, but… Azriel stepped over, reaching down to lift Cas's chin up in one scarred hand.

His best friend and near-brother's eyes were… pale. Fogged over, even, the hazel blurred into something closer to a beige or a pale tan, nearly blending into the whites, swirling around in a way that reminded him, uneasily, of Amren. Cas smiled up at him, and even that was a faded, blurred expression. His skin was so hot it nearly burned Az to touch him. "The wards that keep us safe, of course," Cas said, and laughed, softly, looking back down.

"Where is Mor? Amren?"

"Mor left," Cas said, thoughtfully. "To go get Lucien, I think. She really should have believed you, you know, when you warned her to lock us up. Ah, well. If she had tried I'd have torn her arms off. Amren is in the library. She thinks she can unravel whatever the smoke did to us."

"Cas… what _did_ the smoke do to us?"

Cas looked back up at him, then laughed again, loudly. "You'll see in a minute. Do you remember, Az? What you were promised, in the fire?"

"No," Azriel whispered. _Yes. I do. _This was all terribly wrong. But he couldn't seem to move; he felt rooted to the spot. As though _this_ were the dream, and he would wake up in a dead queen's throne room, on his knees before Cas...

"I do. I know_ exactly_ what I was promised." Cas dropped the whetstone, holding his knife up to look over its edge, watching the sun glint just slightly off the blade. Then, moving in a flash of speed, he shoved Azriel's back against the rock wall behind them, his wings pressed painfully against it, and held the blade to his neck.

"Cas, what the fuck-" Azriel tried to shove him off, but Cas pressed the blade closer, and he went still again, dropping his hands to his sides.

"Shut up," Cas said. "I want to talk."

"Cas, I-" His voice was thin, a choked-off whisper.

"I said _shut the fuck up, Azriel._"

His hands were so close to his own hidden daggers, if he could just buy a minute, keep Cas distracted. Something in his mind was moving slowly, though. He felt like his thoughts were fighting through molasses. The fog was beckoning, asking him to give up and let it back in. "You don't have to do this-"

"I didn't," Cas hissed. "I don't want to, Azriel. I don't_ want_ to hurt you." There was a half-second of clarity, of clear eyes laced with worry and rage and no small amount of fear, and then the fog came over them again. "I don't want to but I can't stop it. Burning the chains… we were supposed to do that. She _wanted _me to do that. She _cursed us._"

"Cursed us?" He should have thought of that. Amarantha had so little true power of her own, she _always _used enchantments and spells. "This is all part of a spell? So you _don't_ want-"

"_Of course I fucking do!_" Cas groaned, leaning his forehead against Az's, even as the blade against his neck did not move an inch. Azriel could feel a trickle of blood and swallowed, trying to press himself further against the rock behind them, only to feel his wings ache in protest at the pressure. "How are you the fucking spymaster and you _missed centuries of it?!" _

Azriel's hands found the handles of the daggers he had hidden in holsters along his upper thighs, but he did not move. "Cas-"

"I have watched you pine, and mope, and brood over her for _five hundred fucking years_," Cas said hoarsely, finally pulling the knife back. His eyes slowly went to Azriel's wings, half-crushed behind him, where they lingered. Azriel felt his heart drop. He'd seen that look on Cassian's face before, or a version of it, on nights when he took females home from the bars.

Still, he did not - _could_ not - move.

_Let me in, _the fog whispered to him, threading gently into him, a brush of claws against his mind. His shadows quavered before it. _You know who you belong to. You've always wanted just to belong. _He fought against it, trying to keep his mind clear. Tried to examine the feelings, the way he'd taught himself to do, cold and calculating and without emotion or bias.

Cas let his free hand up to run all five fingers, slowly, down the skin of his wing. Azriel closed his eyes at a rush of pleasure so sharp it nearly felt like pain and forgot everything he'd been thinking about.

"_Stop._ You have to stop."

"You don't_ really_ want me to stop, do you?" Cas let one finger circle, just slightly, underneath the first joint in the bones, the circles widening. Azriel's entire reality condensed to the feeling of Cas's fingers on the thin skin. "Just tell me to stop again, Az. Tell me." Azriel felt twin spikes of fear and something darker. Despite attempts to hold himself still, to open his mouth and speak, he felt his back arch into it instead, felt his head drop back slightly, eyes closing. Cas pressed their hips together, just a little, and Azriel's eyes flew open again. He stared at Cas, breathing hard, trying to force the words out. _Stop. You have to stop_. He couldn't make himself say it. He didn't want him to, not really, did he?

"That's what I thought," Cas whispered, a breath against his ear. "You don't want me to stop. I can _feel _how much you don't want me to stop."

"Cas, this isn't what you want-"

"No. You're mine._" _Finally, Cas pulled his hand back, stepping away. Azriel ached with relief and disappointment. His body wanted to step up, to press them back together. His skin felt electric and too small to contain him.

_You know who you belong to, shadowsinger. Don't you want to belong? Does it matter who you serve, if you serve him first?_

"Mor thinks _I'm _the dumb one," Cas said, softly, "but I would have noticed if it were _you. _And you've never seen a thing."

"I didn't know," Az whispered. "Illyrians don't-"

"Yeah," Cas laughed, bitterly. "Yeah, I noticed you didn't _know_, Az. And trust me, Illyrians _do, _we just lie to each other about it. Our first war camp leader had a male in another camp he used to visit in secret. Did you know that?"

"No," Azriel swallowed. "I didn't."

"I followed him a few times. Here he was, telling us about how it's _weak, _it's _forbidden, _we would be _exiled _if we did, they'd _clip our wings for acting like females,_ and he kept a secret lover himself. Our whole lives, our _whole lives _they tell us it's disgusting. I've been _terrified of it_, of them finding out it's not just females. Do you even know what the war bands would do if they learned about it? They'd never take a command from me again. I'd never be able to help Rhys. I've spent _centuries_ worried about it and here my High Lord, my brother, is busy fucking _Tamlin. _And it won't even matter, because High Lords and the High Fae do whatever the fuck they want and everyone just shrugs. But no, you're right,_ Illyrians_ don't." Cas's laughter rang out, bitter and humorless, echoing off the rocks. "Mor thinks I don't get it, she really does, but I _do. _I get it. I _am it._"

"So when you… before…"

"Guess I'm pretty fucking good at making sure nobody notices, huh? And here everyone thinks _you're_ the good liar. You know, there's nothing else in the world she could have promised that would have made me so _weak-_" The clarity again, those clear hazel eyes turned on his, the understanding that somewhere in there Cas was fighting to get back in control of himself. "-that I would have let the red in. But she promised _you._ I can keep you safe from her. I'll do _anything_ to keep you safe. I promised you I would always be there for you, Az, and I can't… _Meid siit leida._"

_Find us here._

"Cas, you have to stop. You can't do this," Azriel whispered. When he went to move away from the wall of rock, Cas just lifted one hand and shoved him back. His shadows clung to him, as frightened as he was, unable to lift themselves against Cas because _Azriel _couldn't. He tightened his grip on his hidden daggers.

Cas must have noticed. His foggy eyes drifted down to Azriel's hips, to his thighs where he held the hilts in his hand, then slowly back up. "You want to fight, Az?" He leveled his own knife out, standing back, pointing it, flat side up, right at Azriel. Azriel had seen this smile on his face a thousand times when they sparred and trained together, but those fogged-over eyes... "Then let's fight."

"_Lahse tal minna,_" Azriel hissed, the words coming suddenly easily to him. _Let him go._

Cas didn't try to use his own power, and neither did Azriel - all they used were their knives. Cas's armor had only been finished the day before and was brand new and untested. The leather, not yet softened by age, creaked while he moved, hindered his movement. Azriel's own was silent, covered in scratches and worn spots from heavy use.

Blade hit blade, and Azriel found his daggers glancing off of Cas's thicker armor. He was pulling his punches, he realized, but he couldn't stop. This was _Cas. _And Cas never quite seemed to really hurt him either.

Stab. Parry. Downward jab. Screech of metal. Spin away, and stab again. The two of them danced in a circle on the ledge, leaving only scratches on each other, neither able to truly make the hit that would take the other one down. A blade to his face barely drew blood and Azriel let the red run, landing an answering scratch along Cas's's hand, who hissed, going into a low crouch.

"Cas, we have to stop," Az hissed at him. "You don't want to fight me."

"I really don't," Cas replied, that moment of clarity in his eyes again. He moved back, pulling his own knives back in slightly. Azriel, breathing hard, paused himself. "I really don't want to do this."

"Then _don't. _Fight it, Cas. This is all just… something she's _done to you._ You don't have to do what she wants. I'm not going to go to you just because she _said to_."

"No, you're not." Cas groaned, stumbling back slightly, his wings folding in. He sheathed his knives and put his arms around himself, looking smaller than Azriel had ever seen him. "You're not, are you?"

"Cas… hey. I'm sorry," Azriel said softly, stepping forward and sheathing his daggers again. Cas didn't look at him. He took another couple of steps, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "This is just a spell, a… a curse, or something. You just have to fight-"

Cas looked up, and Azriel realized with horror that he was laughing. Cas feinted a hit to his face, and when Az put his arms up to defend himself, he swept his feet out from under him instead, until he landed on his back. His head smacked back against the ground and he landed badly on one wing. Azriel grunted in pain, blinking against the burst of stars behind his eyes. "Wh-what the fuck-"

Cas dropped down on top of him, a knee on either side of his hips, leaning over him. "Are you ever _not_ going to fall for that? I've caught you with that move probably twenty times during sparring practice. Cauldron, you look so _good_ on your back."

When Azriel tried to push him back, Cas laughed at him, grabbing his wrists and forcing them over his head. A shadow detached itself when Cas looked at it, and wrapped itself around Azriel's wrists, forcing them together. "Hold them there or I'll cut your hands off."

"No," Azriel whispered, terrified. "Cas, you can't use the shadows, they're mine- my shadows-"

"_I_ can't," Cas said softly. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the center of Azriel's forehead. "But _she can. _Shouldn't have gone Under the Mountain to save me, Az. You should've left me there. Brought your shadows Under the Mountain and now they belong to her, too. I'm not doing that to you. She is."

Az struggled, trying to command the shadow to let him go, feeling the distress of the others as a riot of chaos and fright somewhere in the back of his mind. The shadow did not respond to him, only tightened harder. He felt a sudden bite of pain and hissed.

"You'll want to hold still for me," Cas said, tilting his head to the side. Azriel could nearly see her now, behind his eyes, see that it was her will twisting Cas's thoughts. He wasn't a puppet, Cas was still in there somewhere, but... but not all of him was in control.

_Only the dark parts, _Azriel thought, some hint of his analytical mind functioning even now. _Only the parts of ourselves we never show or admit to. That's all of him she's leaving in control, the parts that want and want and want. That's all she'll leave of me._

He tried once more to free himself, desperately this time, and the shadow wrapped around his wrists bit harder. He grunted, softly. Cas tsked, pressing his weight down on Azriel's hips, a buzz of pleasure that Az tried to close his eyes against, but found it needling into his mind anyway. _Does it matter who you serve, if you're with him? What do you want, Azriel?_

"Stop fighting it," Cas murmured, trailing his mouth now from Az's ear to his neck. Azriel felt his hands, curled into fists, start to fall open. "Just hold still for me."

"I will," Az whispered, closing his eyes, turning his head to the side not quite unwillingly. Cas's teeth grazed along the place where armor met skin and he shivered again. The bite of the shadow faded, leaving only its cold wrapped around his wrists, holding them above his head. Az wasn't sure if he'd have moved his hands even if they'd let go, any longer.

"I've already lost Rhys," Cas said distantly, rifling through Azriel's armor, pulling all of Azriel's hidden daggers out one by one and throwing them behind himself. Az could hear some of them clattering over the ledge, falling to the ground far below. He tried not to think about the pressure of Cas's weight on his hips, and failed. "I lost him fifty years ago. We've lost him. I'm not going to lose you, too."

"We didn't _lose Rhys_-" Azriel tried to put some expression on his face, but he couldn't remember how. "We didn't _lose_ him, and we'll get him back-"

"No, we won't," Cas murmured, the last of Azriel's daggers gone. His wing ached, throbbed in pain. Every shadow but the one around his wrists had curled up a few feet away, a faint whimpering he could hear in the back of his mind. Cas leaned down over him, his hair falling forward and brushing against Azriel's cheek. "We won't. But I can save you, if you just do what I say, if you just go where I tell you to go, do what I tell you to do."

Azriel stared into those fogged-over hazel eyes, eyes he knew as well as his own. He thought of Cas, one night during those first two weeks in Rhys's mother's house, finding his way over to him in the middle of the night when Azriel had sat awake, staring wide-eyed around, wrapped in his wings and shadows. _The door's not locked, Az, _Cas had whispered, hands on his shoulders, looking into his eyes. _You can go outside any time you want. The door's not locked._ Azriel had, eventually, cried.

And Cassian, shushing him gently so he wouldn't wake Rhys up, didn't make fun of him for it at all.

He must have said something to Rhys, because by the time Azriel had left training the next afternoon, Rhys had found tools somewhere and he and Cas, apparently taking a truce out from their constant war with each other, had simply taken the doorknobs off every door in the house. _Look, _Rhys had said with his smirk already in place. _Look, Az, we fixed it for you. You literally _can't _get locked in any longer._

_Thank you, _Azriel had said, nearly silent, but it had been the first time he'd realized they weren't going anywhere, either. _Your mother's going to be furious._

_My mother's always furious at me about something, _Rhys had said with the easy confidence of a child who had a mother to love him.

Azriel looked through the circular hole in the door, and slowly began to smile. _So I can really go outside any time I want?_

_Any time you want, _Rhys had replied, firmly. He and Cas had shared a smile, probably the first true moment they had been friends rather than enemies. _Cas and I talked about it._ _No one's ever going to lock you in again._

"You'll lock me up?" Azriel whispered, weaker than he meant to sound."You, Cas?"

Cas's eyes flickered once more, guilt and fear, but the fog won out. "No," He murmured. "No one's ever going to lock you up again. I am going to keep you with me and no one will _ever_ lock you up again. _Oled sa minuga?_"

_Are you with me?_

Azriel swallowed, trying to look away. Cas grabbed his chin and forced his eyes back, forced him to look. "No, you will _look at me when I touch you_," Cas said, each word soft and even. "I am going to touch your wings again. Do you understand? I want to." He felt his body respond to Cas's voice, the stir of desire in him, even as he knew- he _knew _this was wrong. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen.

_The way what was supposed to happen? What did you want to have happen, exactly?_ He couldn't examine the feelings, the thoughts. He couldn't turn them over until they were powerless. His mind wouldn't let him - all he could think about was his own pounding heart.

"Yes," Azriel whispered. Az let his wings open a little bit further, ignoring the ache where one had bent strangely when he'd been thrown. This time he didn't close his eyes when Cas's fingers found them. Instead he searched Cas's foggy gaze for some idea of what he was thinking, let himself get lost in it. His back arched at the feel of Cas's fingers, roughened by centuries of being a warrior, against sensitive skin. The wind blew past the ledge where the two of them were lying. His heart beat in the back of his mind, along with the warning bells that he could not seem to heed.

_You know who you belong to._

"_I need to know that I can count on you," Cas said while they sparred. Azriel was breathing hard, and Cas had barely broken a sweat, but this wasn't the kind of fighting that came easy to Az even on a good day. On a day when he and Cas were both hungover as shit, it was Cas who recovered faster, and Az who struggled to keep up. "If you throw punches like this in a battle when you lose your sword, you'll be dead in three seconds and you won't exactly be much use to Rhys or I then, will you?"_

"_Of course you can count on me," Az gasped, stepping back, hands up. "I swear, this is just because of last night. I need a break, Cas. Water."_

"_Weak," Cas said with a grin, but reached down and threw him the water-skin anyway. "We only had, what, ten or twelve drinks last night?"_

"_So how are you still so chipper?" Az snapped, drinking the cool, clear water like it was the only thing standing between himself and death._

"_Because I'm always chipper after a night taking care of everyone's favorite cat," Cas laughed out loud. When Az made a face at him, he put his hands in the air. "What? You lurk around in all the corners, you're grumpy as shit, you only like to be touched when it's your idea, you avoid everyone as much as possible, and then at night I wake up to find you sleeping on my head. What could be more catlike?"_

"_In my defense, I was really drunk last night, and we both fell asleep on the floor. Besides, __at least I don't actually purr when I'm with a female," Az snorted. His shadows even skittered around in laughter. If it was laughing. Even Azriel couldn't always tell. _

"_Hey, I told you that in strict confidence," Cas snorted. _

"_Well, you've sure done your best to share that bit of essential gossip with every female in Prythian," Az smiled, relaxed. It was just the two of them, and that was the way he had always preferred it. He looked back at Cas and thought that the other man felt the same way._

_He, and Cas, and Rhys. That was all he needed._

_He heard Mor calling a greeting, turned to see her headed their way. His heart skipped a beat, and he raised his hand to wave back. When he turned back to Cas, the other man's smile had dropped right off his face. He was instead watching Azriel, with a strange, wistful expression. _

"_What?"_

"_Nothing," Cas muttered. "Want to go drink again tonight?"_

"_My hangover hasn't even worn off from _last _night!"_

_Cas looked at him, and there was a sadness there, a vulnerability Azriel didn't understand, even with all the knowledge he prided himself on. "Azriel," He said softly. "Will you? Go drinking with me again tonight?"_

_Azriel fought his discomfort and nodded, getting back into his fighter's stance, right as Mor came trotting up the hill. "Yeah, of course, I'll go with you, Cas."_

"_Just the two of us?"_

"_Just the two of us."_

_Something in Cas's face relaxed, and he and Azriel started sparring again. By the time Mor made it into earshot, Az was too busy trying to avoid Cas's punches to think any more about that weird look on his face._

He felt something at the edges of his mind, claws that dug themselves in and held on, a soft, fuzzy redness spreading itself like oil as Cassian's fingers continued to dance through the skin of his wings, seeking the most sensitive spots, refusing to give him any time to recover from one touch before the next began. The claws that seemed somehow to sharpen his desire, intensify it, make it so hard to try and remember why it was he had fought this in the first place.

There was a voice deeper than his shadows, a song that covered over their warnings and worry and made him think that maybe he was _thinking_ too much. The air smelled like vanilla and something deeper, something you could get drunk on. "Please," He whispered, twisting helplessly, and he wasn't sure if he was asking him to stop or keep going.

Cas kept going.

Something maybe he'd wanted all along. Cas's fingers started to circle that thin spot of skin just inside the first joint again and this time, Azriel's last bit of composure broke. He groaned, the sound hardly more than a breath of air, his bound hands trying to grab onto some part of Cas's armor, pull him closer. The shadows were gone, he couldn't hear their voices any longer. His skin felt like it was on fire, burning for Cas to just _touch him again._

"_Oled sa minuga?_" Cas asked him again. Their faces were inches apart. Cas let his hand touch the shadow and it unwrapped Azriel's wrists, let him free. Az did not try to push him away, not any longer.

Azriel, who prided himself on standing apart, distant from the strength of other peoples' feelings, _wanted._

"I didn't know," Azriel said, softly, his voice thin with the control it took even to speak. "I... ah... I can't- I want- you have to-"

"I don't _have_ to do anything," Cas whispered into his ear, biting, just slightly, on his earlobe. "Understand?"

"Yes," Azriel breathed, although he wasn't entirely sure what question he was really answering any longer. "Cas, I-... never s-saw it in you, I didn't see-"

"Do you see it now?" Cas's voice was hoarse again, with something other than fear or worry or rage. Something softer, and deadlier, than those. The fog in his eyes moved, slowly, in hypnotic circles Az could not look away from. Cas grabbed Azriel by one wrist and slowly, inexorably, brought his hand down and forced Azriel to touch him, slid his hand underneath the layer of armored scales to touch the heat and hardness of his cock underneath.

"Yes," Azriel said, hoarsely, as Cas slowly closed his hand around it. "I see."

He _wanted, _he wanted _so badly._

_I know who I belong to. It doesn't matter who we serve, if I'm with you._

Cas leaned down, their mouths separated by less than an inch of air. Azriel tried to close the distance but couldn't quite make it as Cas still had him pinned to the ground, and their mouths barely brushed.

"Not yet," Cas teased him, his deep voice a little breathless. "You have to answer my question first."

Both of them must have skin that felt like fire now, he felt lit up from the inside, a blue flame of _want_ and _need_ burning who he was away, leaving only the darker parts of him behind.

He thought of his visions. Where again and again he was taken down by Amarantha's soldiers, her creatures. Where he brought down Velaris to save Prythian. Where he'd seen himself kneeling before her throne, had seen worse than that. The knowledge that his own part in this was to betray Rhys, and Valeris, and everything he loved, to turn into something else for a while. He'd seen the _want _that would take him over, but he hadn't known _this_ was what he would be wanting.

_We'll have to lose, and badly, before we can win, _he'd said to Lucien, and meant it_. _He just hadn't realized it was Cas he'd have to lose to.

"So are you with me?" Cas scraped all five fingernails down his wing and Azriel felt one of his hands pull at the other man's armor, the other tightening instinctively, hearing a helpless moan he only realized a second later came from his own mouth. Cas let out a soft pleased hiss of air through his teeth.

_I can give you what you've always wanted most of all, _that insidious whisper in his mind, the low, sharp notes of her song. The knowledge of just what she was offering him came, fully formed, into his mind. He couldn't think of anything but want. _Just say yes._

"Yes," he whispered. "Yes, Cas. _Ma olen sinuga. Ma tahan sind. _All the way to hell."

He let the fog - and Cas's mouth, and his _hands_ \- claim him.

_Lucien, you had better fucking hurry, _was the last free thought he had.


	40. Chapter 40

Amren was knee deep in books, and frankly feeling pretty damn resentful about it.

Cas and Az were around here somewhere. She'd seen Cassian this morning, hanging around the townhouse, waiting for Azriel to wake up. Some things never changed, she thought, although Cas had been weirdly quiet. He'd been quiet ever since they'd found them collapsed by the fire pit.

Which is why she was in the library, surrounded by piles of books taller than she was.

This had been easier when Rhys was here. He'd never admit to it, he was too into his image as some sort of mysterious anti-hero, but he'd enjoyed research as much as she ever had. And she liked him _so much more _than his father.

The library was Amren's favorite place on Velaris, in no small part because nobody here wanted to speak to her. No one even looked at her. She was left to herself, just Amren and her books and a topped-off bottle of lamb's blood. She could stay here all day and be content.

Something about that fire, and Lucien's description of the blue smoke, bothered her. Not that it was likely some parting gift of Amarantha's; that she had understood immediately. But she couldn't quite understand what that parting gift had _done. _

She'd looked at Cassian and Azriel, truly _looked _at them, and hadn't seen anything amiss, other than the lasting feel of Amarantha's magic that had nearly drowned the two of them.

Her hand curled into a fist where she sat, staring sightlessly at the sixteenth of the books she'd looked through so far. Amarantha had taken Rhys, and in all Amren's long life, she had never felt such rage as she did when remembering his loss.

His final scream, as he threw into them all the responsibility for Valeris and warned them never to leave, had been… startling. She'd never heard a sound like that before, and after fifteen thousand years, there's not much out there that surprises you.

Whether she was willing to acknowledge it or not, Rhys was important to her. Not so important she'd swell his already gigantic head any further by telling him so, but… important. And so were the Morrigan, and Cassian, and Azriel.

Which is why she needed to figure out what _exactly_ Amarantha had done.

The books she was looking in weren't helpful - nothing quite matched the enchantment she suspected still hung around Cassian, a little on Azriel. Even Lucien had had a bit of the scent, a trace of it, before he'd left to go present himself to the Queen.

Amarantha had seen queens, kings, and lords come and go in her time. If Amarantha had been content to simply live out her time without touching Amren's friends, Amren would largely not have given a shit about it. Let her live out her tiny existence, her small ambitions. The High Lords would get their power back in the end.

If she just hadn't touched Rhys… but she had.

She had taken Rhys for a lover, and Amren knew Rhys well enough to know Amarantha's depredations weren't exactly his style. She had _abducted _Cassian, made him a laughing stock in her throne room. She'd enchanted him, somehow, in some way Amren hadn't yet discovered. Even Azriel stunk of Amarantha's vanilla smell, even if no one else but her seemed to scent it on them any longer.

Those things were unforgivable.

What really bothered her, however, was that not one of them had been able to explain what _happened_. They'd been lying there passed out on the dirt, their skin so hot Mor had been physically unable to touch them directly and Amren had had to throw Cassian over her shoulder like a sack of grain and carry him back herself. His feet had dragged on the ground, she was so short.

Lucien had carried Azriel, a little more easily. The whole time his sword had kept up a panicked litany of nonsense, something about fire and sand. _That's what you get, though_, Amren thought. _Lock yourself up for several millennia, you're just going to get way too attached to the first nice ass that came along to look after you._

Lucien did have a pretty good one, after all. Amren felt herself smirk.

Once they'd woken up, Azriel and Cassian didn't remember a thing. They remembered building the fire, and putting the silver into it, but after that... absolutely nothing. Cas was quieter than usual, too - with Az it was hard to tell, since 'quieter than usual' would mean absolutely silent for the rest of eternity, but even he seemed... subdued. Their skin still felt too hot. Cas seemed... worried, almost fussing over Azriel, never really leaving him alone. Not exactly unusual, they'd always been thick as thieves, but... something in Amren's instincts told her it wasn't right.

Every time they were in the same room she felt like there was an unfamiliar electricity in the air. It was like trying to eat in those few milliseconds right before a lightning strike. All her hair stood on end when they looked at each other. She had to be missing something here.

It wasn't until the eighteenth book that she found what she was looking for. One of the oldest books in the library, its leather binding had been repaired so often that it probably didn't even count as the same binding at all any longer. A book on enchantments used long before the War, back in the earliest days of mortal enslavement. Back when High Fae had enslaved some of the lesser fae, too. Long before the Illyrians had come from their own native land.

She flipped through the pages, written in an older, archaic version of the common writing used today. Amren hadn't read anything in this particular take on the language in so long, it took her a half hour or so to get used to it and read it naturally again.

There.

She found it, complete with a drawing of a set of cuffs very similar the ones that had been on Cassian. Crafted of pure silver from the mountains of… something-something-something… made by the silversmith, who had no other name apparently, laced with the Archer's Thorns and glass sand from 'mortal magic', whatever that meant... Amren found herself chewing her lower lip as she read, eyes narrowed.

Controlling minds, through the use of suggestion, creating a permanent link. If the wearer is removed from the connected location, they will eventually become unable to wake until they are found. When removed, the wearer will feel compelled to burn it, creating a link, giving the owner control in order to return the runaway to their possession. Used primarily as a method of tracking runaway mortal slaves, but works on fae…

_Tracking runaways. Giving the owner control._

Amren sat up, accidentally knocking over the bottle of lamb's blood, which she caught in one hand without even looking at it or spilling a drop.

"She knows where we are."

In her mind, she searched them out, using their connection to the veil over Velaris. Mor had just arrived back, Cas and Az were… somewhere, up high, sparring. Nothing unusual about that, but...

It was Mor she found first, although mostly because she ran into her as she was trying to leave the library and Mor was on her way in, her arms full with a book, a lantern, and a few other things.

Behind her was Lucien, carrying a dead body.

Amren stopped, raising an eyebrow. "Please tell me you're not responsible for the dead person."

"That really depends on how you define responsibility," Lucien said smoothly. "Amren, we have something to tell you."

"I have something to tell _you_."

Mor pushed past them both and scattered everything in her arms on a nearby table. "We're out of time. Amarantha-"

"-knows where we are," Amren interrupted. Both of them looked at her in surprise.

"How do you know that?" Lucien asked, lying the dead woman down with immense care on a table. He gently pushed hair out of her eyes.

"Because I just read up on what was in that shit she put on Cassian. It's made to keep mortal slaves from running away. He's linked to her, now. She's in his head as much as her own. She's probably in Azriel's, too. They'll lead her right to us."

"So _that's_ how," Mor said, at the same time that Lucien muttered, "I knew it."

"How did_ you_ know that she knows where we are?" Amren asked.

"Because she fucking told Rhys right in front of me," Lucien snapped. When her other eyebrow raised, he shook his head, putting his hands up. "I'm sorry. She told Rhys. While I was standing right there."

"What… what did he say?" Mor asked, hesitantly. Amren watched a look pass between Lucien and Mor, something she did not quite understand. Some fae expression.

"He… was upset," Lucien said carefully. "She made it sound like they're leaving _now. _We need to finish this. We need to find Cassian and Azriel."

"Is this your terrible plan, then?" Amren asked, eyes starting to light up. A dead body and a bunch of antiques? Azriel had never led her to expect a plan as awful as this. It _had_ to work, if it was this bad.

"Yes," Lucien said, laying Feyre's hands out, opening her fingers with the palms towards the ceiling. "This is my terrible plan. But I'm pretty sure it's the only one that actually succeeds."

"Right, I remember. Because a creepy ghost in the woods told you it would."

"Yeah, that about sums it up," Lucien replied without looking up at her. Amren smirked to herself.

_Back off, _the sword purred at her, in mock sweetness. _That ass is mine._

"Oh, I hate you so much," Lucien mumbled, flushing red.

"What? Why? Who do you hate?" Mor asked, picking up the lantern and laying it on its side, curling Feyre's fingers around it until she appeared to be holding it.

"Never mind."

Mor groaned. "It's the sword, right? I wish I could hear it."

Lucien snorted. "No, you really don't."

"What are you going to do, exactly?" Amren said, stepping back to watch. Mor put a small white piece of glass, oblong, about the shape and size of a mortal eye, into Feyre's other hand. Lucien was flipping through an old book, looking for a specific page.

"We…" Lucien said, laying the book out, open on the table next to Feyre's body. "... are going to wake something up."

"What are you going to wake up?" Amren thought of the thing in the pit in the center of the library, the darkness that Cassian had once fled in pure terror. "And what does a dead mortal have to do with it?"

Lucien opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, there was a shake, something internal rather than external. An earthquake all of them felt within their chests. Lucien blinked and looked up, eyebrows furrowed. "What was that?"

Amren and Mor had both gone pale.

"Shit," Mor said out loud in a whisper.

"Cas, you son of a bitch," Amren muttered.

"What just happened?" Lucien asked. The next rumble was real, shaking bookshelves, and all of them stumbled to the side, grabbing onto the table for stability. Books were slowly shaken out of their places and fell to the floor. One of Amren's piles fell with a series of loud thumps. "What is happening _now?_"

Amren heard it in her mind, clear as a bell, their two voices together, triumphant, a little breathless. _Meid siit leida. Amarantha, anname teile Velaris._

"They don't have much of this kind of power on their own," Mor groaned, as the earthquake grew worse. They could hear, faintly, the sound of people crying out to each other outside. "That's why he had to give it to_ all_ of us, they couldn't - do it on their own…" A loud crash, the sound of a building collapsing, the rumble and roar as the earthquake continued.

"Probably hurting themselves," Amren hissed. "Dumbasses. If Amarantha weren't the most lustful bitch on earth she'd have tried to get me instead, at least I could make this _gentle_."

"What. Is. Happening?!" Lucien tried to get to the door, but the ground seemed to move three feet to the left underneath him and he simply stumbled and fell to his hands and knees, crawling the rest of the way. The lantern in Feyre's hands fell and clattered onto the floor.

Not one of them noticed her hand close slowly around the piece of white oblong glass, or that when the hand fell limply open again, the glass was gone.

"Cas and Az," Mor said, looking pained, on her hands and knees as well. There was another rumble, another building crashing to the ground somewhere outside. Books fell behind them in a constant curtain. The screaming had gotten louder. "_They_ did it. She must have given Cas some kind of power along with whatever shit she put in his head. Damn it, this is what Az was trying to tell us! I'm such an idiot-"

"I'm going to punch, slaughter, and strangle them both, in that order," Amren said, as the shaking finally slowed down and came to a stop.

"I grasp that we are going to murder Cassian and Azriel, and far be it for me to mess with Night Court business, but for doing what? What did they do?!"

Mor turned to look Lucien in the eyes. "Cas and Az just brought down the wards and_ called_ Amarantha to Velaris."

There was a cry of horror outside. The three of them ran out, discovering total chaos in the streets of their city.

The damage was unmistakable. Buildings had collapsed, not meant to withstand a true earthquake. Many that hadn't fallen leaned at harsh angles, like half-built toys abandoned by a child. People were gathering in the streets, High Fae and lesser fae together, hugging each other, checking on loved ones, and calling out to each other.

A mountain in the distance appeared to be smoking, a strange dark smudge against the sky. As it rumbled and the cloud of dark smoke grew larger, the earth shook again, though not as much. Ash flakes began to flutter down like snow all around them. Outside, the day turned to an unnatural dusk. The sun was a dim disk of red, getting darker and less visible every moment.

A lesser fae in front of them pointed, his blue face a mask of horror. "What is that?!"

The library was up at a height, and they could see from here all the way to the sea. Where thousands of troops had begun to winnow in, in bits and pieces and clumps and whole regiments, down by the sea.

Amarantha had brought an army against an undefended civilian city.

"Cassian, you Cauldron-damned son of a _fucking _bitch whore." Amren's voice was flat, and calm. "Mor, this is going to be a massacre."

"No," Mor said, her eyes flicking back and forth as she thought quickly. She drew herself to her full height, the Third-in-Command of the Court of Dreams, and came to a decision. "Not if we get everyone out of here first."

"Do you genuinely think we have the time to do that?" Amren said, still looking down towards the sea. The silver in her eyes shifted, narrowed. She could see the soldiers milling around on land, pulling themselves back together, although she knew the others couldn't. It paid to have true immortal's eyes, in this fae body.

She could see all the way to the marks on the soldiers' left chestplates, to a black-haired man standing at the front, an expression of guilt and horror on his face. Behind him was a golden-haired man with cuffs just like Cassian's on his wrists and neck.

Amarantha was a tiny red-topped dot down there, in her armor, black with glowing red lines where the plates fit together. There was a wild smile of triumph on her face.

"Yep," Amren said out loud. "It's her."

"Oh no," Mor said softly.

"Did he…?" Lucien looked between them, then back to those troops.

"He did." Mor's voice was soft. "_They_ did." She turned and look to Amren. "Did she bring…?"

"Yes," Amren said softly. "She's got Rhys with her." She looked over at Lucien. "Tamlin, too."

Hope bloomed on both their faces. They were so young. Amren thought of Azriel, and quirked a smile. Great and terrible hope, as he always said. Fae might think themselves immortal, but they were just as prone to that fault as any human.

Lucien took a deep breath in, and then slowly let it out. "Anyone want to help me wake up a sleeping god and hope it agrees to help us?"

Mor slowly raised one hand. "Let's do it."

After a beat of silence, Amren raised hers, too.

The three of them stood, watching two small winged dots in the sky as they swooped down towards the sea, going to greet the army.

"I better hurry," Lucien muttered to himself, and turned to go back into the library.


	41. Chapter 41

"I don't see why he has those… things on him," Rhys said, his eyes on Valeris, as the city rose above them. They were standing on the thin strip of beach inside the narrow, needle-shaped bay that led up to the lowlands, with the ring of mountains around to protect the city and its people. Somewhere far past Valeris, deeper into the mountains, was Hewn City.

He could hear the sound of people crying out in the streets, running from the ships, trying to get to higher ground. _His _people. The only people he had tried to protect from Amarantha, now laid bare to her invasion.

Panic was a constant drumbeat in the back of his mind. Just ahead of him, Amarantha stood on the sand, surveying the farmland, letting her eyes raise to see Valeris proper. The idea of her even looking at his city seemed indecent, and he ground his teeth against it. Against the invisible web of her magic that forced him to follow along with her, to be here to watch his city die.

Tamlin was behind him, flanked by two soldiers, wearing a silver cuff around his own neck and two more on his wrists. His were studded with what looked like emeralds, that seemed always to be glowing, just a little bit. There were shadows under his eyes, and his feet dragged a little as he walked.

He could see the damage from the earthquake now. Farm houses had tumbled into stone and thatch, fishermans' cottages piles of ruined wood. Further uphill, in Velaris proper, he could already see that some buildings leaned at absurdly wrong angles, some of them only staying upright because they were leaning on each other.

_The wards coming down did that, somehow. How?_

One of the soldiers shoved Tamlin hard and he went down on his hands and knees into the sand, then pushed himself back up, eyes narrowed. The silver cuffs made _him _tired, too, like they had done to Cas. Rhys turned and held out a hand to help Tamlin back up.

Still. His mate had survived worse.

_And you were the one to inflict it on him. _Rhys closed his eyes, briefly.

_Stop, _Tamlin murmured along the bond. Even his mental voice was exhausted. The thread that ran between them had a pulse of fatigue in every shared thought. _You can't punish yourself for that forever. Besides, I was the one who told you to go ahead at the end._

The damage from the earthquake had clearly caused chaos. Which would make it even easier for Amarantha to bring this city down. He couldn't tell _how_ the wards had come down. Too much of his power had become disconnected for him to feel much more than a sense of Mor, and Amren, and Cas and Az somewhere close.

He had dreamed, for fifty years, of the day he'd get to see them again. He had not expected to do so still tethered on Amarantha's leash and with Tamlin's voice inside his head.

_Admit it, you like my voice._

_I hated your voice for a long time, Spring._

_You like it now, Nightmare. Cauldron, I need to lie down_.

"He has those_ things _on him because I cannot trust you," Amarantha said without looking back at him. Her red hair was braided and twisted into a low bun at the nap of her neck, and she wore her battle armor, black plates that glowed red wherever they met. She already had her sword out, as though she could not wait to kill more things that Rhys loved.

"I don't know what you imagine I can even _do_," Rhys said, trying not to sound as irritated as he was. "You stole nearly all the power I've ever had, and the rest of it serves you now anyway."

"It's better if I do not underestimate you, isn't it? Besides, I have a plan."

Rhys closed his eyes again, took a deep breath, and then turned to his left to look back at Tamlin. His mate met his eyes, and there was a hint of a smile in them. The same sense of always bouncing back from the brink that had_ infuriated _him for centuries was actually a reassurance, now. The sun glinted off the silver around his neck and Rhys had to look away as the fury rose in him again.

Amarantha hadn't explained it. Only commanded Rhys himself to put them on Tamlin, to close the silver around his neck and his wrists. And his body, as always, obeyed.

_I want to know why._

_I'm sure it's terrible, and we'll find out. I think I forgot that it always smells like fish near the ocean. _Tamlin's nose wrinkled slightly, and Rhys felt a sudden, horribly timed urge to kiss him.

Other than Tamlin's escort, the soldiers ignored the two of them where they milled around, getting into position. Around them individual soldiers were forming into lines, lines into regiments. Some were already marching forward towards the fisherman's cottages and farmhouses that lined the main road up into Velaris proper. There were so many, for one small city. She didn't just want to capture Valeris, she wanted it burned to the ground.

These were Amarantha's troops, too - not the armies of the courts,those who might pull punches when faced with enforcing an unwelcome invasion on innocent people. No, these were the soldiers who had flocked to her, to the promise of her power.

He knew at least a couple of Illyrian war bands would probably show up to wreak havoc, too. He was just waiting to see them flying in from the mountains.

A soldier stepped up to Amarantha, giving her a low bow. "Your orders?"

"Leave alive anyone who surrenders," Amarantha said, looking ahead of herself still. "Scatter the living to the winds. Kill anyone who doesn't surrender. Raze the whole city to the ground."

"Your Majesty, there may be a… complication."

Amarantha raised one eyebrow.

"The Darkbringer legion is here," The soldier said quietly. "The new Steward has rallied them, and they appear to intend to defend Velaris."

"They were ordered by Keir to stand down and allow this," Amarantha replied with surprise. "He personally swore to me that they would follow his command to let Valeris fall."

"Well, apparently when they learned about the existence of the city, they… rebelled. They have sworn their allegiance to the Night Court itself and to the new Steward, not Keir."

_Keir._ Rhys gritted his teeth. "I knew I should have had Azriel kill him," He muttered.

Still, the idea of the Darkbringers rebelling against unjust orders and coming to help Velaris… that made his heart leap. Maybe he was more understood in the Court of Nightmares than he had ever thought.

"Well, you didn't kill him," Amarantha said lightly. "So you can mark that one up to your own idiocy once again, Rhys my love." She turned back to the soldier. "Relay my orders. We'll start here. If they fight, we lay siege. Take the Darkbringers down. I want the new Steward located and brought before me in chains. I'll be going in straight through here with my boys."

"Your Majesty, do you think it's wise of you to bring… them?" The soldier turned a look on Rhys that was equal parts loathing and disgust.

"You can save the effort of that expression," Rhys said smoothly. "It stopped bothering me about 43 years ago."

Tamlin actually laughed. The soldier to his left shoved him. Rhys caught him by one arm before he fell again.

"I'm not worried about them," Amarantha said smoothly, looking ahead again, watching Velaris with real hunger in her eyes. "They do as they are told. For instance, Rhys is going to help me take Valeris."

"The fuck I will," Rhys snarled, stepping forwards. "Your orders have limits, Amarantha."

"Oh, you'll fuck _and_ you will," Amarantha purred. "Because if you don't, the spikes inside that thing around your mate's pretty neck will come out, and you can watch him bleed to death."

"The what?" He turned, looking back at Tamlin again, who only shook his head, bitterly chuckling to himself.

_We should have thought of that._

_Tamlin, I-_

_Why didn't we assume 'something terrible' would be something just like this? _

_I knew it was a trap from the second she put you in my room._

_Do you regret it?_

_No, Tam. I don't._

"The _spikes, _Rhys. Why did you_ think_ I put that on him? I need to ensure your cooperation with what we are about to do." There were shouts all around. The first screams began as soldiers further up ahead of them found the first pockets of resistance. He could see the flash of sun on swords, the red of blood. Up in the sky, Rhys saw two small dots, gradually turning into visible Illyrians. Rhys had seen his two brothers fly a thousand times - he would have known them anywhere.

Cas and Az.

_Amarantha's newest friends._

"Listen to me, Rhys darling. I will take your _mate _with me. You will go with the soldiers and provide them with support using the power I will give back to you."

"You're going to give me back my…"

"If you act against my interests, my love, Tamlin will very slowly and painfully bleed to death. I don't have to be alive for that enchantment to work. You will not touch me, do harm to me, or work against my orders. Do you understand?"

"You expect me to… kill my own people?" There was no way. No way.

_No no no no no_

"Yes," She replied, flatly. "Kill Velaris for me, my love, or kill your mate."

Rhys let loose with an array of cursing inside his mind that would have impressed the most hardened sailor in the world. "That's not exactly an ideal choice," He said, his voice tight with anger, with helplessness.

"Yes, well, that's why this is a_ test_. How much do you love him, Rhys?" Amarantha smiled, her red lips an obscenity. "Do you love him enough to make a _real _sacrifice?"

Tamlin was silent. His eyes were back on Valeris, his expression more thoughtful than anything else. Rhys was startled to feel no fear on the other end of the mating bond.

_This is your home._

_You are my mate._

_This is your _home, _Rhys. Protect it._

_You are my _mate.

"Of course I do," Rhys growled. "But not a sacrifice for _you._"

"Fine, then." Amarantha's smiled widened, and Rhys realized a beat too late that this had been a trap, too. She turned to look at Tamlin, who glared back at her with narrowed eyes. She closed one hand into a fist. "_Verit sema, _Tamlin."

Tamlin's eyes widened and he let out a gasp of air, his hands going up to claw at the silver cuff around his neck, falling to his knees.

"Tamlin?" When Rhys got to him, Tamlin was choking. There was a smear of red, small at first but getting larger, running out from under the silver at his neck. Blood began to drip from under his wrists as well, and Tamlin fell to his hands and knees, choking, gasping for air. "Let him go! Stop it!"

"Will you make a sacrifice today?" Amarantha asked, in a purr.

Tamlin grunted, and pain flashed into Rhys through the mating bond, the pain of metal digging inexorably into his neck and wrists, spikes finding their way through thin skin. Tamlin rolled onto his side, curling his hands against his chest, a strangled groan making its way out from gritted teeth.

_Protect your- _

_home-_

Every one of his instincts wailed to save his mate, save Velaris, stop all of this, do _something._

Tamlin coughed, blood spraying from his mouth and dripping onto the sand.

"I'll do it," Rhys hissed. "I'll do what you want. Just _stop hurting him_."

Amarantha let her fist fall open. Tamlin gasped, taking in deep breaths of air, red running still from his mouth, soaking into the sand. After a moment, his breathing began to ease up, as Amarantha healed the wounds and the spikes went back in. The two soldiers grabbed him and dragged him back onto his feet.

"I am going to slaughter you with my bare hands one day," Rhysand said, his voice low, a deadly fury incarnate.

Amarantha laughed. "If you take one step out of line today, Tamlin will die. And so will they." She gestured.

There were two impacts as Cas and Az landed just in front of them, one after another. The soldiers had weapons out, but Amarantha held up her hand. "These two are with me," She said warmly. "My newest killers. So that's _three _of your great loves who will die if you disobey."

Rhys looked into the faces of his brothers and saw strangers there instead.

Az had his head tilted to the side, a small smile on his face, oddly flushed for how short of a flight he had just taken. Cas stood with his body angled towards Azriel's, even though he had locked strange, fogged-over eyes on Rhys. "Hey, Rhys," Cas said in a throaty voice, something that wasn't quite his own. "Where have you been?"

"He's been busy," Az answered for him, and the two of them laughed. Even their laughter seemed off-kilter, a little slow, too high-pitched, not quite fae. Azriel's shadows did not cling to his skin but followed behind him, as though they could not quite bear to touch him directly.

"Please no," Rhys said, and thought he could take no more pain than this.

"Hello, my darlings," Amarantha said brightly. "Cas, you brought a friend for me."

"_My_ reward," Cas said flatly. "He's mine." Rhys's eyes narrowed. _Oh, Cas, you are the biggest fucking idiot on Prythian. _

_What? _Tamlin's voice was still a little strangled along the mating bond, but better. He was looking back and forth between Cas and Az himself. Rhys wondered if the memories were clicking back into place, now that he was here. He'd known who Cas was as soon as he'd seen him, after all. The intricate web Rhys had woven around them, hiding the truth of what Azriel and Cassian were to him from the world, had cracked apart for Tamlin as soon as their feelings for each other had changed.

_I've known it all along, I just didn't…_

_What?_

_I didn't think Cas even knew it himself._

"Your reward, then." Amarantha waved one hand dismissively. "Fair enough. Would you and your_ reward _be so kind as to find whatever counts for leadership in this city and murder it?"

"Your Majesty, your will is mine," Cas said, putting his fist over his heart and bowing low. After a half-second, Azriel did the same, his eyes still on Cas. There was a flicker of something in his face, of the Azriel that Rhys knew, but it was gone before he could even decide whether or not it was real.

"Good." Amarantha turned back to look at Rhys. "Remember this, my love. You will burn Velaris to the fucking _ground _for me, at my command, or Tamlin and those beautiful animals die. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Rhys said softly. "I understand."

"I understand…"

"I understand, your Majesty."

"Your power is mine."

"Yes."

"Cassian and Azriel are mine."

"Yes."

Cas and Az actually laughed again, and Rhys tried not to look at them as Cas lifted one dagger and gently drew it over Azriel's face, without drawing blood. The shadowsinger shivered, closing his eyes, still smiling. "Do it again," Az whispered, his lips slightly parted. "Make me bleed this time."

"I have taken everything you love from you."

Rhys thought of Mor, and Amren. _Not everything. Not yet._

"Yes."

"So be a good boy, Rhys, and let's go kill a _lot of people._" Amarantha watched him for one more moment. The madness in her was in total control, and her eyes were wide, with her pupils tiny pinpoints. He couldn't stand to look at her, the hate and loathing and guilt in him was so strong.

"_Ma tagastan su voimu sulle._" Amarantha said softly.

All of Rhys's power, that vast well inside of him, began suddenly to fill. Rhys felt power he had not felt in fifty years flooding his veins, euphoria that flowed into him like an ocean, a darkness he had never found the bottom of in all his long life, a sky full of stars. He looked up, and the smoking mountain in the distance calmed with a thought.

Then he looked back at her. There was a void within him and he could turn it on her, twist her inside out-

Tamlin choked behind him, again, and with an effort Rhys pulled the darkness back into himself. He heard Tamlin breathing in gasps, but breathing. Amarantha smiled. Her victory complete.

Cas stood himself on Rhys's left, Azriel on his right. They were like his own shadows, and he couldn't look at either of them, couldn't stand the idea of what they were here to do. What he was here to do. This would be it, he thought. The last bit of his conscience, his identity, that he had held onto that wasn't hers. When he had spent night after night reminding himself _I am Rhysand, the High Lord of the Night Court, and I will go home_. That would be gone. Even his brothers were under her thumb.

After this, what would it matter, what he did at her command? He would have already done the worst thing he could imagine. _Amarantha's whore _would be _Amarantha's murderer._ He wondered how much of what he had left of himself would be gone after this.

_Save Velaris, _Tamlin whispered to him along the mating bond. _You don't need me-_

_I am bound to obey, _Rhysand said, his inner voice surprisingly calm, and that was all. If it was over - if all hope was gone - he still had Tamlin, and Azriel, and Cassian. He'd burn the world to the ground if she wanted, as long as he had them. He could live for them and them alone, and he could kill for her.

"Go," Amarantha commanded, and Rhys felt himself moving forward. He looked back up towards Velaris. The dusky redness of the air began to dim, and to darken, as a great and terrible night suddenly overtook the sky. Stars winked into existence, too large, too close, tails of ice glinting with light behind them, smaller rocks with fire lighting them up as they fell. On either side of him, Cas and Az had their blades out, Siphons glowing, terrible empty smiles on their faces.

"Let's do this," Cas said softly, a sick excitement in his voice.

"I never get to kill like this," Az breathed. Rhys looked at him sidelong, and had that thought again - that something was different. That Azriel didn't look like he was fully under whatever this spell was. There was something in him that was fighting it.

But it didn't matter. Tamlin was back there, at her mercy. If he didn't do this, Tamlin would die. His mate would die. Cas and Az would die.

_Is it more noble to sacrifice those you love to save your people, or to sacrifice your people to save the ones you love?_

The thing was, though, Rhys had never been all that noble, not inside his own mind. He liked to pretend at it, but in the end, nobility was just another way to get things taken from you. He was going to cling to what he had left.

Rhys looked up at the dark sky and thought, _bring it down._

The stars grew larger and brighter, became rocks slamming into the earth. The troops surged forward as one as Velaris began to fall.


	42. Chapter 42

"This is ridiculous, Mor. I'm not leaving _now_," Amren snapped.

"I don't care what you think is ridiculous, we have to get these people out! I need you to evacuate as many as you can, as fast as you can! Winnow them further into the mountains, behind the Darkbringers, and tell them all to run like hell for Hewn City! Anuie will let them in, he wouldn't have sent the Darkbringers here at all if it weren't a message." Mor and Amren stood in the streets just outside the library, looking up at the black sky. At first, she'd felt a thrill of recognition, of _Rhys is home, he's home, _but then rocks had begun to fall, blazing to earth with tails of fire, slamming into the ground. It felt like half the houses in Valeris would be gone before Rhys ran out of power.

People were screaming, running, begging for help. Somewhere towards the coast, she could hear the Darkbringers, who had appeared like magic to defend them, clashing with Amarantha's troops.

Rhys wasn't here to _help_. That knowledge had been a body blow, had nearly knocked her off her feet. Rhys was one of those attacking. Rhys was bringing the sky down on top of them, and his people were going to die by his hand.

Even though she had started to notice that not one single rock that had come down had hit anyone yet. But not all the collapsing buildings were empty.

"We're running out of time to save them," Mor continued, helping a woman who fell trying to run, helping her to stand. The Darkbringers, down below them where the farms became Velaris proper, were holding back the troops for now, but she didn't know for how long. Either Cas or Az, someone with wings, took off into the sky, and she found herself stumbling back. "We have to get these people out of here!"

Lucien, inside the library, was frantically setting Feyre's body back up. Everything had fallen during the earthquakes, even Feyre herself, and he'd had to pick her back up and get her back onto the table.

Mor could see from here a Darkbringer cut down by one of Amarantha's soldiers and her heart beat with fear, but also the adrenaline of the battle. She itched to take her sword and stand alongside them, her father's men being led by her youngest brother. The Darkbringers, who had rejected his bargain with Amarantha when they'd learned about Valeris, who had pledged themselves to the Night Court itself and instead had come to help. Anuie was down there somewhere, proving himself or dying, and it killed her that she was not sure which.

"I am Rhys's Second in Command, and I will not be ordered by you," Amren glowered, her silver eyes shifting. "I can help fight-"

Mor spun around, grabbing the smaller woman by the shoulders. "I want you to fight," She said, softly. "I do. But the people are more important right now. You have more power than me, and I need to help Lucien, and I need you to _evacuate the city before Amarantha's soldiers get here!_ You are his Second in Command, my fucking _father _is hiding on the continent after selling us out, and someone has to be around to command the Night Court if this doesn't work!"

Amren glared at her, the full weight of those unfae eyes on hers, and then nodded stiffly, turning away and running into the crowds. Mor took one more look at the sky above, the absolute void, as the wind kicked up around her.

A rock came barreling down from the sky, lit with fire, and slammed into the earth not twenty feet away from her. Mor let out a breathy scream. "Rhys, what are you doing?" She said, tears in her eyes, and then turned and ran back inside the library, to help Lucien.

Lucien had just finished up. Feyre lay, with one hand empty and open, the other holding onto the unlit lantern. The necklace lay around her neck. The book was open to the right page, the right story.

Lucien's sword, the sword she couldn't hear, was laid on Feyre, with the top of the hilt resting just next to her heart. Lucien groaned, slamming his fist into a table.

"What?"

"We need _Cassian_," Lucien said, furiously. "He's the Night Court piece."

She heard two more impacts from outside. It must be more of the rocks Rhys was tearing out of the sky to send to earth. How could he have his power back and_ do this to them?_

Because of Tamlin, she thought. Something with him. They were mates, Lucien had said. Amarantha must have done something to Rhys, used Tamlin against him.

"Can we do it without Cas?"

"I don't _know!_"

"We have to try," Mor said, moving forward, picking up the book. "I'll just cut myself. Let me read the spell. We'll just have to see if-"

"Did someone call my name?" Laughter from behind her. "Hello, Morrigan," The voice sang. A familiar voice twisted by cruelty.

Mor and Lucien slowly turned around.

Cassian and Azriel stood in the doorway to the library, in their Illyrian leathers. Both of them had smiles on their faces that made them nearly unrecognizable. As Mor looked with horror, Cas held out his bloody blade and Azriel leaned over and licked it, slowly, his eyes on Cas's face.

"Ooooh, that's not good," She breathed out.

"You don't like that? Would you like me to lick _Azriel i_nstead?" Cas asked, grinning at her with murderous good humor. "I mean... I could lick his knife. Or other things. I'm not picky. Just because _you _don't appreciate him doesn't mean I don't." He looked Azriel slowly up and down, an expression of sickening lust on his face Mor had never seen before and sincerely hoped she would never see again. "I _really _appreciate him."

"By the Cauldron, Cas," Mor said in disgust.

"Oh, when it's Rhys and the Spring Lord, how _dare _I have a fucking issue, I'm an _old fashioned Illyrian,_ you throw things at me… but when _I _finally get to have some fun, it's all, 'by the Cauldron, Cas'," He mocked her tone. Azriel chuckled, moving against him, and Cas turned to look at him. The two kissed, right there in front of her, and Mor stared in horror as Cassian slung an arm around him to pull him even closer. Azriel lifted one of his daggers and cut Cas right across the face, slowly. Mor could see the slightest flash of their tongues together. Cas laughed as he began to bleed, murmured something, and then they kissed again, Azriel's thumb smearing Cas's blood across his cheekbone like paint.

"Well," Lucien said, his voice a little faint, "that's certainly more fucked up than I expected today to get."

Mor thought she might be sick all over the floor, right then and there.

Azriel broke away first and turned to look back at her over his shoulder. He slid the dagger lightly down Cas's chest over the leather scales, slowly down over his stomach, chuckling when Mor looked away just before the tip of it went below Cas's navel. "Aw, I don't get to have fun, either? Only a problem if it's Cas and I, huh, Mor? Is that it? Maybe you just want to make sure I don't get to touch _anybody._"

"You know damn well that's not it," Mor hissed, drawing her own sword. "What the fuck did you do to him, Cas? This isn't how he talks. What did she do to _you?_"

"I don't know," Cas said, with a shrug. He and Az stepped away from each other then, slowly moving their direction. Az went towards Lucien, Cas towards her. Mor looked at Azriel steadily closing the distance between himself and Lucien and had a sudden wild image of some dark starving wolf stalking a fox. "I don't know what she did. I'm starting to enjoy it, though, whatever it was."

"Only _starting_ to?" Azriel asked. He had that smile on his face again, the one she hated most. The empty, delighted smile of a bleached skull, of death itself. "I had a pretty good time up on the ledge, myself."

"Ha. Don't I know it," Cas teased, circling Mor, moving like a cat with a bird in its gaze. "For someone who had no idea what he was doing, you sure nailed the basics, Az. We were almost late to break down the wards because of that."

"You're the one who wanted me to know how," Az pointed out.

"Ha, like you didn't want to know, too," Cas laughed, the sound thick and twisted, off-kilter somehow. As though he were laughing at her through a long tunnel, from far away. "I could get used to living like this, Morrigan."

Azriel turned to look at Lucien and smiled. "Don't worry, little fox, I've still got plenty of energy for you."

"Terribly glad to hear it," Lucien muttered, squinting. He closed his good eye and looked entirely through the metal one. "I can _see _the spell on you. It's so thick your faces are almost gone. How far down in yourselves has she put you? Can you even think, that tightly woven?"

"Who needs to think," Azriel said in a low voice, "when you have been given a purpose and a partner?"

Mor held her blade out, glaring at Cas. "Whatever you did, that's not _him. _How _dare you _do this to him_? How dare she do this to you!_"

"Oh, look, it wants to_ fight_," Cas said playfully. "Mor, I've beaten you in the sparring ring more times than either of us can count. Be a good girl and I'll give you over to Amarantha in one piece. She ordered your death but I think I could convince her to spare you."

"No. And I've beaten you just as much."

"Oh, Mor," Cas said pityingly. "We both know that's not true."

"Lucien wants to fight, too," Azriel said softly, an unfamiliar glee in his voice. "If I win, Lucien, do I get to take your metal eye out?"

"Absolutely not," Lucien hissed, grabbing his sword from where he'd laid it over Feyre's body, backing slowly away, trying to get around a bookshelf to get some space.

"Sad face for Azriel," Az sing-songed, his head tilted to the side just a little too much to look natural. "Guess I'll just have to rip it out alongside your remaining one." He let out a bizarre, high-pitched cackle, a hyena's laugh. His shadows, Mor noticed, were trailing him by several feet, not one of them willing to touch him. There was a sense of overwhelming heat coming off of the two of them, as though she were staring into a fire.

She thought, suddenly, of Azriel's eyes when Cas had gone missing. A volcano about to erupt. Mor could see it, then - the heat was because they were both _angry_ and pushing back. It wasn't Amarantha's magic - it was them trying to fight, hemmed _in_ by her magic, wrapped tightly in it, struggling to resist. The mountain rumbled again, shaking the earth around them minutely.

"There's a loose thread…" Lucien mumbled to himself, as Azriel continued to push him further and further back. "Mor, there's a loose thread between them. If I close my eye, I can almost see them trying to unravel themselves. They must be exhausted under there."

"We don't want to fight," Mor said, evenly, carefully. She edged herself to the left, slowly, putting distance between them. "We can stop Amarantha, Cas. We can stop her."

"I don't _want_ to stop her," Cas said, his voice a little foggy. "I can't stop _myself_. I fight, but… it fades. It's too late to stop her." He took a deep, slightly shaky breath, and then smiled in a way that seemed more like baring his teeth. "I have what I want now."

"What? Cas, this _can't _be what you want."

"Oh, you think? You're such a bloody fucking expert on what I want?" Cas spat in her direction. His Siphons glowed, a red edge to his blades. He threw a spike of red at her, and she countered it easily with her own power, letting it shatter against the wall she threw up. "You know it _all, _huh? Always have. You know the _truth, _right? Isn't that your _gift?_" He was moving towards her, in slow, careful steps, pressing closer. She moved back, just as carefully.

Azriel, meanwhile, turned his foggy eyes on Lucien, who raised his sword, going into a low crouch. When their blades met, it was Lucien who was pushed back, Az pressing him with unnatural strength. Lucien finally got his feet under him, shoving with his sword and throwing Azriel off balance, ducking to the side as Azriel pulled on his Siphons and attacked with magic at the same time as his blades. Lucien countered it with a blaze of fire that the Siphons hit like a wall and fizzled against.

Mor stumbled over a book, almost losing her advantage, forcing herself to keep backing up without taking her eyes off of Cas, who was only watching her with intense concentration as he pressed forward, constantly forward, trying to close the distance between them. "You can control _fire?_"

"Of course I can," Lucien grunted, Azriel pushing him back even as he defended himself with the flames. "I'm part of the Autumn Court, remember? I just- never need it-… Ah! Shit!" Azriel's blue spike had landed a glancing blow and Lucien, who wasn't wearing armor, stumbled back bleeding. He healed himself and threw fire back at Az, who simply dropped into a crouch underneath it and then back up, slashing Lucien across his upper arm before he danced back. He was playing with him, she thought. _Playing. _Like a cat with a toy mouse.

"Cas, please don't do this," Mor whispered, a bookshelf between them, trying to keep her eyes on him in the empty space just above the top of the books and below the next shelf.

"The Queen's Killer goes where he's ordered," Cas said, his eyes blank, hazel circles in someone else's face, searching for her. "And the killer's shadowsinger follows him. That's the deal. Lay down your sword, Morrigan, and live."

"Fuck you!"

"I'm not the one of us who wanted to do that," Cas spat. "And you've never given a shit about _his _feelings, have you? No, not _Mor_, we're never allowed to judge _her_ cruelty, her centuries and centuries of _cruelty _to someone she_ says_ she loves like a brother. No one who cared for him would hold his heart over him for this long." The guilt must have flickered in her face, because his smile widened in response. "Oh, don't be sad about it, little sister, I've fixed that problem for both of us. He'll only ever want me now." He came around the corner of the shelf, lunged for her, and she threw up power to counter him.

Metal on metal and crackling flames echoed around the library. Mor was glad the women here had apparently disappeared when the fighting began, because she had no time to think or try to defend anyone but herself. Cas kept pushing at her with his own power, and she couldn't stand the idea of causing him any real damage, couldn't force herself to land any real blows. This was a farce, a fight she could not win because, deep down, she wasn't willing to do what it would take to truly beat him.

She grunted as Cas's power slammed into her side. He hit nothing but armor but she'd still bruise in the morning. She fought like a whirlwind, all her long experience coming back to her. They ducked around and behind bookshelves, separated, came back together in a clash of blades, separated again.

Then she had an idea. "Lucien!"

"Yes?" His voice was muffled, he was two or three sets of shelves away. She heard a thump and a curse from him, but then the sound of footsteps, and Azriel's low laughter. Saw a flash of his sun-bleached auburn hair as he managed to twist around the end of a bookshelf to escape Azriel's constant pressing Siphons.

Distracted, a second too long. Cas slammed his sword into hers and she only just defended herself, hissing as the impact rang with pain all the way up her arms.

"Get them to Feyre!"

"Why?"

"Just do it!"

Cas nearly bashed at her with his sword this time and she barely parried, groaning at the ringing ache in her arms. She closed her eyes and lifted one hand, using power to simply blast him back. He fell backwards, and growled, wiping at his mouth with the back of one hand as he went to push himself up.

Mor took a deep breath and ran, flat out trying to race Cas to get to Feyre before he could go for her again.

"You want me to lay your body down next to that mortal's?" Cas asked as he stood, watching her. "That can be arranged."

She heard further clashing and turned, to see Azriel and Lucien fighting their way back to the table as well. Except… Azriel wasn't being led, or forced, by Lucien, was he? He was moving that way on his own, bringing Lucien with him. His eyes kept dancing to her and then to Cas and back again, flickering in and out of a clear hazel. She could _see _the struggle in him, half of him following orders, the other half trying to free himself.

_He's not all the way gone. Lucien was right, we can get them out of this. We can break them out._

Mor pushed Cas with her power again, but he defended against it this time, and then they were fighting near Feyre's feet, while Azriel and Lucien's swords met again, shadows spiralling up and around Lucien's blade, at her head.

"We should just do it!" Mor shouted, hardly able to hear herself. Outside more rocks were slamming into the ground, she could hear buildings falling. The sound of screaming had gone faint and far away, even as the sounds of battle were closer than ever.

"We need Cassian's blood!" Lucien shouted back. "I'll have to cut him with my sword!_"_

Cas swung his sword with all his strength behind it, and this time it hit Mor's own blade just right, knocking it right out of her hands. She watched with despair as it went flying, skittering into the shadows. Cas laughed, that thick off-key sound, and she shuddered. "Give it _up,_ Morrigan," He sang, stepping closer. She took a step back, breathing hard, trying to measure the distance to her sword and whether or not she could run that fast before he caught her.

"Give up and _live_," Cas said softly. "G-give…" He shook his head, hit at himself with the palm of one hand, staggered to the side. "Damn it, you bitch, let me _go! _I don't want to _hurt her!" _He looked up at Mor, hair in his face, desperate eyes blazing bright for one brilliant moment, holding his sword out as though he would attack her again, frozen where he was. "I didn't ever want to hurt him, Mor. You have to _believe me_."

"Sssshhh, I know," Mor said softly. "I know you, Cas. I know you didn't want to. I know you never would. Put down your sword, please."

"I couldn't let you lock him up," Cas said numbly. "I made a promise, Mor. I promised him no one would ever lock him up again. I let her in. She won't stop _singing at me._" His eyes glanced to Azriel, who was rapidly beating Lucien into the ground behind them, his own face an empty mask. "I couldn't stop her from taking me but I can keep her from hurting _him_."

Mor saw in Cas's expression a truth she had long missed, and understood part of the final riddle. She let her hands drop. "Cas, do you _love him_?"

Cas took in a shuddering breath, stepping back away from her. She watched his armor rise and fall with his breath, Siphons flickering out. "_He's_ the weakness she used to get you, isn't he?" _Fight it, Cas. Fight the cage she's put you in. Fight. _"It's not because you just... wanted him. It's because you are head over heels in _love with him._"

There was a silence, while he only stared. Except for the rise and fall of his chest under the armor and the way the blade in his hand had begun to tremble, he might have turned to stone.

"As much as I appreciate that we're learning _big important truths about each other_, maybe now is not the best time for chats about love!" Lucien shouted, dodging to the side and rolling as Azriel attacked again. One of Az's daggers caught him along the ribs and he hissed, pressed his hand to it, and went down when Az threw an elbow in his face. He fell into a stack of books, landed hard on the floor on his back, and looked up just in time to see Azriel cross his daggers, the blades hovering at his neck, ready for him to cut Lucien's throat in a single move. He froze like that, the shadowsinger staring down without expression, breathing hard.

"Give the order and he dies, Cas," Azriel said, his tone flat and emotionless. There was a breath of silence, and then Azriel snorted. "You kiss your mother with that mouth, sword?"

Cas looked back at Azriel, frowning. Mor felt the heat blazing off of him.

"Just give the order," Azriel repeated.

"You_ love_ him," Mor repeated, her heart hammering in her chest. "That was the first bargain, wasn't it?"

_Bring the first bargain between brothers to bear_

Azriel turned his head, slowly, to look at them. His blue Siphons continued to glow, but he did not move. He only looked at her, his face an empty blankness, his two daggers crossed an inch from Lucien's throat, as though he would finish the motion at any moment. Lucien began, as quietly as possible, to ease himself back and away from them.

"You promised to never leave each other, all three of you. Rhys told me about it. But there was more for you, wasn't there? Does _Rhys _know?"

Cas shook his head, slowly. "I don't know," He said, as though every word were pulled out of him against his will. He finally dropped the hand with the knife. "I didn't tell him."

"Cas promised me no one would ever lock a door on me again," Azriel said behind them. A shudder went through him, his face going pale as snow with bright red color blazing in his cheeks. He stood, sheathing his daggers, and held his hand out. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lucien take it and stand back up. "Rhys took the knobs off all the doors."

Mor nodded. "I remember. His mother was _so angry _when she told us about it."

Lucien looked closely at Azriel, then turned and laid his sword back on Feyre. He put his empty hands in the air.

"That's taking a risk, fox," Mor said softly. "Cas knocked mine too far to reach if they attack again."

"I can see the spell breaking," Lucien muttered back, in the lowest voice he could. "With my other eye. Whatever the fuck you're doing, it's working. Keep going. Keep them talking. I can see their faces again."

"What did Azriel promise you?" She asked Cas, softly. _Come on_, she thought, _just keep talking to me, Cas, just keep talking your way out._

"Az promised me he was my family now," Cas said, real pain in his voice. "Rhys heard us talking and said he'd stand by us no matter what, all the way to the end. When Rhys's father separated us, put me with the armies and Rhys with a different one and kept Az for himself, we... decided to make a bargain, the night before we all had to split apart. I made one that was… different than theirs."

"The tattoos on your chests," Mor said,, wondering why she'd never thought of it before. "All three of you. I always wondered if they had to do with each other. Why yours was more complicated than Rhys's or Az's. What was your bargain, Cassian?"

"We stand by each other," Cassian said softly.

"No matter how dark the path," Azriel said, a strange smile on his face.

"Together," they said in unison, and looked right at each other.

"But you promised to love him, too," Mor whispered. "And didn't tell them. That's why yours is different."

Cas groaned, leaning over, hands on his legs. He shook all over, like a leaf in a windstorm, until she reached out to touch his shoulder. When he looked up at her, his eyes were clear, and his face had the same high color and clammy paleness as Azriel's. _A fever breaking, _Mor thought. "Mor? What the fuck have I _done_?"

Azriel put a hand up to his lips. His eyes were clear, too. "My mouth tastes like blood. Did I…? Oh, I did. Oh, I absolutely did." His face went greenish grey. One of his shadows ran up his arm, over his wing, and back the floor. He glanced down at it, the harshly drawn lines of his beautiful face softening. "Yes, it's me," He whispered, with genuine affection in his voice. Then he was flooded with them, shadows surging around his feet and wrists and wings, as though they'd been waiting to get back to him, a thousand unsettling formless dark puppies. His small quiet smile in return was all his own. A shadow twined around Cas as well, briefly, and some of the tension seemed to go out of his shoulders.

Mor let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "You opened Velaris," She said, but without judgement in her voice. She could deal with judgement later, assuming there was going to _be_ a later. "The both of you. And now you're going to help us save it."

Cas nodded, and turned to go back out the door, but she grabbed him by one arm. "No. You have to help us in _here_."

"Both of us," Azriel said, walking up to look down at Feyre's body. Lucien moved as if to stop him, then simply dropped his hands again. "We're _both_ the key to the Night Court. Cas and I. Together. That's why my visions thought I was him - because we're all... twined up together in it."

Cas's face went bright red at Azriel's words, and Mor wondered what, exactly, had happened up on that ledge. "What do we have to do?" Cas asked, blinking. "I don't… what is this?"

"Cut yourself on Lucien's sword," Az said quietly. "We'll bleed for it. That's how we wake her up, isn't it? The _sword _has been the shadows all along. We were the song. We had to be... whatever we were back there... to become the song."

"You had to have Amarantha's magic in your blood," Lucien said, his eyes widening in realization. "You _had _to have it. Illyrian, and High Fae, and mortal magic, and _her magic._ It's the _magic_, not the blood itself - you've got Illyrian and High Fae magic in you right now, and Feyre…" His face twisted a little, in grief. "She had her own mortal magic. And my sword was made by mortals."

Mor looked back through the open door. She saw one of the Darkbringers running, flat out, and saw Amarantha's soldier on his heels. An arrow, shot by some Darkbringer further up she couldn't see, slammed into the chest of Amarantha's soldier and sent him in a heap to the ground, dead before he landed. One of Rhys's rocks from the sky slammed into the ground not thirty feet from the library's door, burying itself into the dirt, and she jumped. "We're too late," She said, despairing. "They've made it into the city. Rhys is knocking everything down and there's nowhere for anyone to hide."

"Not too late," Lucien said firmly. "Not as long as anything in Velaris still stands." He grabbed Azriel by one arm and dragged his palm along the blade of the sword. Az only gritted his teeth but otherwise didn't react. As Mor watched, Azriel's hand bled but the blood was _soaked into the sword. _He bled and bled and bled and then pulled away, his hand healed. Black was growing along the sword, turning it to obsidian.

"What…"

Cas stepped forward on his own. He looked at Az first, Mor thought, for what to do. How had she never realized it before, that in moments like this Cas always looked to Azriel first? _Was he thinking of Az when we… _"I'm so sorry," he said, softly, looking at Azriel as if the rest of the world had never existed. "I'm so sorry, for what I did, for-"

"Stop," Az said firmly. "Right now you have to bleed."

Az reached over the table, and Cas gave him his hand. Azriel's shadows slid down his arm, wrapped around Cassian, hid their clasped hands from view, traveled in tendrils of smoke up Cas's arm, curling around him the way they did Az. Azriel drew Cas's palm along the blade of the sword. It drank from him too, drank and drank, and the blade flashed completely black.

Lucien's sword began to glow from within, the shadows lit within it, the black edges rimmed in bright gold. The song drifted up to all of them, louder than it had ever been.

Mor heard, in that song, a lover who understood her, truly understood all of her, a woman who would laugh with her and cook her breakfast in the morning. She heard the sound of a life unafraid of judgements, a family who knew her and loved her anyway, of a world where she was who she was, and loved who she loved, and it didn't matter at all what anyone else thought. She heard a guest at Solstice, Rhys greeting her with welcome, Mor curling up with her on the couch while they all opened presents together.

Lucien heard laughter, a woman full of fire and stubbornness and will, someone who stood by his side no matter what. Someone he would follow anywhere, and who would go anywhere with him. He heard the songs of Calanmai, of Tamlin doing that ridiculous thing where he acted like just another musician and everyone pretended they didn't know it was him. Of Tamlin, all the light back in his eyes, free of the wounds she'd inflicted on him, inside and out. Of his friendship, and the Spring lands, and loyalty returned.

Azriel heard a song Cas had sung to him once. When Azriel had come to stay, one night when he could not stop fearing the idea of those locked doors, Cas had tried singing a lullaby he'd overheard a female singing to her baby to help him go to sleep. He hadn't known the words and Azriel's sides and wings had ached from laughter at the filthy lyrics Cas had sung in their place. He'd forgotten all about his fears by the second verse. Eventually, the two of them were laughing so loudly they woke Rhys up, and he and Cas had resung it together, until Rhys's mother had come storming in to make them stop. They'd sung it for her, too, and she'd been laughing too hard to be stern about trying to get them back to bed.

Cassian heard Azriel singing a bawdy drinking song one night that they had both had way too much, for once losing his quiet shyness and roaring along with the rest of them, the sparkle of drink in his eyes as he and Cas and Rhys sloshed drinks together, spilling them all over the floor of the bar, Rhys insisting on trying to help clean it up. He'd been so drunk that none of his powers were quite responding right and eventually, after Rhys had managed to turn several empty beer steins into crystal unicorns, the bartender had begged them to leave. He heard Azriel still singing it along an empty lane as Cas helped him home, the two of them leaning on each other for support. Az had still been humming it, albeit more softly, when they had collapsed into the same bed, wings half-tangled in each other, and passed out. Cas had woken after a couple of hours, still roaring drunk, to find he had his arm over Azriel and the other man's head in the crook of his neck. He hadn't dared move - he had laid there, just like that, heart pounding, head still spinning from drink, and thought that Azriel had never slept so soundly.

Feyre's hand tightened on the lantern, and a flame flickered to life within it.

"Mor, read the book," Lucien said quietly. "Now."

Mor picked the book up, scanning for the spell she was looking for. Just a mortal faerie tale, about a god long since forgotten.

"_Wake up, old god,_" She intoned, "_and bring to us_

_the blood to avenge our injustice_

_we bring you blood and death and dust_

_we bring you life._

_In mortal body we bind you be_

_With immortal eyes that you may see_

_And hear our bloody melody_

_Old god, we bring you life._

_May our hands lead you here_

_May our mixed blood bring you near_

_May the pieces of your body we've brought here_

_Bring you to immortal life_

_Wake up, vengeance. We have need of your knife._"

A shudder went through Feyre's body, and the library shook around them. Deep in the dark pit in the center of the library, something grumbled in vague annoyance, and was still. The necklace seemed to sink into Feyre's neck and collarbone, gradually, until it was an impression, a dark and intensely colored tattoo, and no longer an actual piece of jewelry.

This time, when the sword spoke, everyone, including Mor and Cassian, heard it as clear as day._ Lucien, I want you to meet my mother._

Feyre's eyes opened, a wide and sightless white, and she gasped, taking in air with an audible wheeze. She coughed as though she were unfamiliar with breathing and, using one hand, began to push herself up. Lucien took the sword back quickly. Her golden-brown hair floated around her as though she moved through her own body of water. Her eyes seemed to scan through all of them, lingering on Lucien's face.

"_This body knew you,_" An unwordly voice spoke. It was a thousand female voices, screaming, shrieking, moaning, begging, pleading, laughing, furious and happy and terrified. One voice seemed slightly stronger than the others, and Lucien flinched at it.

Under her skin, power roiled, like waves across a great ocean trapped under mortal skin. Feyre's body reached out, touching Lucien's face, gently, tracing the scar from his forehead to his jaw. "_You were a good man, and kind, when you knew you could be._"

"Yes," Lucien said, a little hoarsely. Mor saw grief and longing, hurt and acceptance cross Lucien's face, all in a rush. "You deserved better than what we were used to. I tried to be better for you, Feyre."

"It's not her," Mor said softly. "It was never going to be your mortal that woke up. We knew that."

"I know," He replied, without looking away from Not-Feyre's face, as though memorizing every detail. "I just wished... no." Lucien straightened himself, his good eye gone hard and flinty again, the way life in the Autumn Court had been a hard lesson in learning how to hide showing itself in his rigid self-control. "I know."

The blank eyes looked at all of them, and a slow smile curved across the lips of the thing in Feyre's body. It took back Feyre's hand. _"This body was meant for a purpose_," It said thoughtfully. As they watched, the dark threads that had sewn her shattered body back together vanished, leaving silvery scars that glittered in the light. Marks of the injustice against Feyre, of her untimely death.

The old god looked around at them again. "_I have been asleep a long time. I do not belong to your kind._"

"Lucien… what _exactly_ did we wake up?" Mor asked, barely able to move her lips. Az and Cas both moved to her, setting themselves on either side of her, and she felt gratitude to see them wanting to protect her again. Knowing that they were back to themselves.

Lucien stared into the Not-Feyre's flat face, a thousand emotions on his.

_May I introduce- _the sword began.

"_I can introduce myself, Ayla,_" those thousand terrible voices said, sang, shrieked, screamed, cried, laughed, whispered, moaned. Not-Feyre pushed herself off the table and stood, looking down at the lantern in one hand. "_I am vengeance. I am the terrible justice wrought by bloody hands. I return the violence tenfold, and the world trembles before my rage. I right the wrongs in blood. Thank you for waking me, fae. You were the ones who forced me to sleep, after all, and broke my body into pieces. You were the ones who turned my body into your false stories instead of bones. It's only fair._"

Lucien looked at the sword. "Your name is _Ayla?_"

The sword was silent for a moment. _Look, I didn't judge_ your _name._

"_Why do you wake me, fae?_"

"We woke you to... right a wrong," Lucien said, his voice a forced, careful calm. Mor wondered what his metal eye saw, if he could see the true shape of what was currently locked in Feyre's dead body. Or if he only had that expression because he still could not get past watching even a copy of Feyre alive and walking again.

"_You were the wrong committed against me,_" the voices said thoughtfully. "_You destroyed my worshippers, buried them by the thousands below my temple. You buried me. Put me to sleep, and scattered my relics to hide me._"

"That was thousands of years ago," Lucien said softly. "Tens of thousands, maybe."

"_What is time, to a god?_"

"The world is out of balance," Mor spoke up. "This wasn't supposed to happen. Amarantha was never supposed to make it here. We need help."

"_Amarantha. I know that name. It is the purpose the body was sent for, and failed__,_" the god said thoughtfully. "_The balance is wrong, here. An act outside of time was committed. I will give you a gift for waking me up, fae. I will not kill you._"

"Well, that's a good start," Cas mumbled. "Amarantha can just slaughter us instead." Az elbowed him in the ribs, hissing at him to be quiet.

"_I will grant you one further gift. What wrong do you want me to right?_"

Lucien smiled. It was not a kind expression. Mor saw the truth in _him,_ then; for all his loyalty to Tamlin, and his constant pursuit of being better and more noble than the family that raised him, he had all the cruelty and ruthless cunning in him that they did. He had turned it to good ends, and needed only a good enough reason to free it, but it was still there.

"We want you to save my friend - my lord. And to help us bring down a false queen," Lucien said in a steady, even voice.

"We want you to save our lord- our friend, too," Mor added. "From himself. From her."

The god tilted its head, looking Lucien over. "_You want me to save them from a mortal queen?_"

"No," Lucien whispered. "The false queen is High Fae."

"_It is not in my nature to aid the fae, even if against other fae. But you have woken me from a very long slumber and loosed me upon the world, and that is a good and righteous thing._" The god rolled its head around on its neck, looking over the four of them, and laughed. All of them flinched at the sound of her laughter. "_I am awake now. No better way to wake than by laying my path with their bodies. Come."_

The god, in her horrifying power, began to walk towards the open door, and the four of them, after looking at each other, followed her.


	43. Chapter 43

With every blow he struck against home, a little more of Rhys died.

He brought the sky down, part of him enjoying the feeling of effortless, immense power, for the first time in fifty years. Calling the rocks out of the void to take down buildings, to break up the roads, even as he tried to aim them away from the fleeing populace. He could feel, when he thought about it, Amren winnowing groups of them away, pushing herself to her own limits, and smiled. He could feel her power snaking in and around his, undermining it, weakening everything he did, keeping up buildings he might otherwise have smashed, tearing to shreds the soldiers who tried to attack the populace as they ran. He could feel her trying - and succeeding - to push his power back. Many buildings were still standing because of her.

_Thank the Cauldron. Get them out of here, Amren. _

Cas and Az had taken off into the sky and Rhys did not watch to see where they went. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to know who they were killing now, or who they had already killed. He had not recognized the faces of two males he had known since they were children. He had seen only Amarantha in their eyes, in the way they looked at each other. Amarantha's endless dark degenerate desires.

Rhys burst a building apart, imagining it was her face, turning the heavy stones that built its walls into tiny pebbles, flinging them in a thousand directions. The soldiers beside and around him, Amarantha's soldiers, had the battle well in hand by now.

With Rhys himself acting as Amarantha's secret weapon, and the populace largely evacuated as quickly as they could go, this would not take long.

He thought about lying awake, night after night, in those early days when Amarantha had still kept him with her. Lying in her bed, next to her, listening to her breathe, helpless to act against her. Usually chained to the wall, just like she would chain Tamlin later on. With the same repeated command, so that if he let himself think on the chains too long, he'd start twisting with desire until she woke, and chose to sate him or leave him breathless all night.

He would try to sleep as best he could, reminding himself, _I am Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, and I will go home again, _over and over, until the litany was the only thought left in his mind.

Well, here he was, home at last. And he was the one tearing it down.

Somewhere behind him, he could feel his mate. Tamlin was struggling with his own horror and hatred as Amarantha dragged him along behind her, into a stone house on a corner. Could feel Tamlin's unnatural exhaustion, his awareness of the spikes, not quite gone, just slightly touching the thin skin of his necks and wrists. The hint of pain, a reminder of what would happen if Rhys took even a little of this power out of line.

The blood, that Rhys could feel as if it were his own, trickling down Tamlin's left wrist, leaving a trail on the ground. The Attor sniffing along behind, all but slavering for it.

He swallowed against the pull to return, to go back to his mate. The drumbeat of _save him save him save him._

No. All he could do was follow orders. Amarantha had won, and she would take even this, this one last thing, from him. Rhys had sacrificed himself for half a century, and it hadn't been enough. It had been for nothing. He'd do what she wanted, if she left him Tamlin, left him Cas and Az and Mor and Amren. If they could still be saved, he would do whatever she wanted, forever. He could be her champion.

Rhys has discovered, after fifty years, that he could break.

Some Darkbringer had gotten close, too close, and Rhys only looked at him and the man misted into a spray of blood, his armor clattering to the ground alongside his unused weapon. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

He had made his way up, walking down the large main road into Velaris, not far from his favorite bar. He wondered if it had even still been open. If the whole building was gone by now. He brought the whole square down piece by piece. It was as dark as midnight, the faelights the only light to see by, as Rhys brought the sky down on all their heads. The wind swept around them, chilled Rhys to his bones, made his fingers numb and frozen. He poured himself into the destruction, hoping he would wear out, run dry, before he was done.

He heard someone scream, and tried to deaden himself to it.

He'd killed for Amarantha for more than fifty years. Killed for her, and wiped some minds, rewritten others. He'd been locked in her bedroom while she had those younglings slaughtered in the Winter Court, had been underneath her when she had her daemati force Kallias to watch those tiny minds shatter. She'd made him stand by and watch while she tore the wings off some poor young Peregryn and sent him to Tamlin as a message. Prythian thought he was a villain because he _was._

That none of it had been his idea, and he felt like his reasons were noble, didn't change a thing in the eyes of the world. He'd done terrible things, and stood helplessly by while she herself did even more.

Now he would do even worse.

He would be the one to raze this city to the ground. His city. His people.

_Stop trying to save me, _Tamlin said softly down the bond. _Save Valeris._

_I can't. You know I can't. _

_Damn your eternal fucking self-sacrifice, _Tamlin said, but there was more love there than anger. _You can't keep going like this._

The thing was, he could. All he had to do was fit himself into the mold Amarantha had made, and he could. He thought he would bury himself in Tamlin, when this was done, ask her to give them a few days alone and just try to remember what he was even still living for.

Rhys stood, in the huge center square, the hub where all roads from the different quarters of the city converged, looking around himself. Looking at the damage that Cas, and Az, and he himself had wrought. The collapsed buildings, some of them on fire. The rocks that littered the road, some large and some small. Craters the size of a man or larger where they had fallen. Bodies, mostly soldiers or Darkbringers, littering the streets. Some citizens he tried not to look too closely at.

There was a twist of air, and Amren walked up to him, eyes narrowed, the silver shifting and moving. He could _feel _how tired she was. She was in no condition to take him on, not now. Undermining all his actions, winnowing hundreds of people, had taken too much from her.

"Rhys," Amren said, a note of bafflement in her voice. "What the_ fuck_ are you doing?"

He didn't say anything, only stared at her, urging the wind to blow harder, as the two of them braced themselves against it. He watched it blow her shining curtain of chin-length black hair around. She did not seem to notice the cold.

_I am Rhysand, and I am High Lord of nothing._

"This is _your city, _you bastard-"

"Amarantha commanded that Valeris fall," Rhys said flatly, feeling himself tearing at the edges just saying the words aloud. "I am bound to obey."

"Amarantha _commanded?_" Amren gestured to the dark sky above them. "You have your power back! Turn it on her! Free yourself!" A rock came screaming down and she lifted one hand. It shattered in the air, falling to earth as a spray of harmless dust. He could see, though, the effort it took.

"I can't," He said, helplessly. "I can't."

"Because of_ what?!" _Amren's eyes narrowed. "The Spring Lord? Because you _love him more than Valeris?_"

"No, I-... Not exactly. And she's got Cas, and Az. I don't… I'm trying not to kill anyone-"

"Trying isn't _good enough, you fucking bastard!_" Amren stepped forward and Rhys did not move, hoping idly that maybe she would just end him now. "Her soldiers are doing plenty of killing for you, if you hadn't noticed!"

_I am Rhysand, Amarantha's Weapon._

There was a rumble somewhere back behind them, up by the library, but neither of them took their eyes off the other. Amren's eyes flicked behind him, then back to his. "Your bitch-queen is hiding at the back of her army, isn't she, like the little coward she is?"

"Please kill her," Rhys said hoarsely. "Or me. I can't… I can't-"

"I get it," Amren said flatly. "True love sacrifices and all that shit. Got to save your boyfriend and your friends. The friends, at least, I understand. The boyfriend I think might be a bit much. I'm a little busy keeping your damn city alive while you turn yourself inside out for a pair of pretty green eyes." Amren backed up one step, and then two. "I told them, you know. I told them you'd do something like this, for love."

"Because I'm a hopeless romantic?"

"You're a fucking moron is more like it."

"I can't argue with that."

"No. You can't. I don't have the energy to fight you, Rhys. Not with all your power. Not now."

"You're tired," Rhys said quietly. "Winnowing thousands of people took a lot out of you. Don't make me fight you. We both know that, as things stand right now, I would win. I am bound to obey, and I would be forced to win. I don't want to win."

_I am Rhysand, Amarantha's Whore._

She swayed, a little, on her feet. "Rhys, I-"

"Get out of here, Amren," He said softly. "Before Amarantha sees you. Please. Go fight the soldiers. Winnow more people out of here. Then soak all your power back up and _come kill me before I have to do this to anywhere else._"

Amren met his eyes for one more long moment, and slowly nodded. She turned and walked away, as casually as if she were simply headed to a nearby cafe.

He misted the soldiers between her and freedom, even though they were Amarantha's. If she realized it, she didn't stop to look back at him, walking right through the sprays of blood. If Amarantha noticed their deaths, he didn't feel any change to Tamlin through the bond.

_Good._

There was a shift ahead of him, the air changing. He looked up, in the direction of the library, to see Tamlin's mortal lover walking out the library's open doors, down the hill, in his direction, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

_Feyre? _He thought of her at Calanmai, that first moment he'd had a hint of hope that maybe Tamlin had finally found someone to end the curse. He'd paid for his trip there - had ended up on the hooks in Amarantha's room for staying gone so long. The thing was, he'd gone to see Tamlin, really, to let himself luxuriate in loathing him - or maybe just to see Tam in his element for the last time - but had run into her instead. Her flashing furious eyes at the fae looking to make rough sport of her, that he had interrupted...

No. That wasn't the girl, Feyre, who had been enough of a ray of hope even Rhys had fallen for it. It looked like her, but…

_What the fuck is that?_

_What? _Tamlin asked through the bond. _What do you see?_

Rhys showed him. Rhys felt Tamlin's burst of love and grief so strongly it almost felt like his own. _It's not really her, _he whispered to Tamlin, trying to reassure him, wondering if he only made it worse. Wondering how on earth he felt jealousy for the memory of a dead mortal girl, why he would regret the death of one more human who should never have entered the land of the fae. _It's not really her. Something wears her skin._

_I know. I know it's not her. I'm fine._ Tamlin wasn't that good of a liar out loud; inside their shared bond, he was an even worse one. Rhys could feel grief emptying Tamlin until he was simply skin stretched over the memory of the loss._ Feyre always deserved better than this._

_I am Rhysand, _Rhys thought to himself, _and I am-_

"Rhys!"

He saw Mor at the same time she saw him, part of the group trailing along behind the thing wearing Tamlin's mortal lover's body. He started running towards her, the soldiers all around them forgotten, and she toward him. He caught Mor in his arms and spun her around, armor and all, buried his face into his cousin's hair, in her familiar smell, in home. The darkness of the sky began to lighten. The wind around them died down. The rocks stopped falling.

"Mor," He said hoarsely. "Mor, I'm so sorry-"

"Later," She said back, fiercely. "Later. What do we do to stop her, Rhys? Why is she doing this?"

He shook his head, pulling back, looking over her, his hands to her face. "Mor, you look just the same. I missed you. She's taking what I love away from me. She's making me do the taking."

"How? Why? Fight it, Rhys! Your power is back! Just fight it-"

"I can't," He whispered. "I can't. She's got- she'll kill Tamlin if I don't do what she says. He'll die if I fight her. I've lost so much. I can't lose him."

He felt Tamlin's flinch along the bond, as the spikes in his left wrist started to dig in deeper, a warning. He looked up and brought the black of the sky back, threw a few rocks to keep up appearances.

Mor frowned, pressing her lips together, and looked behind Rhys at the bulk of the army below. Slowly, she nodded. "Because he's your mate. Lucien told us. If she's got him, you can't fight her, so…" Her eyes lit up. "So _you_ don't fight her, then," She said decisively. "_I_ do. And… that does." She looked back at the strange creature headed in their direction.

"What exactly _is _that, by the way? Just curious."

"A mortal god of vengeance that Lucien woke up to try and help us fight Amarantha, based on a prophecy he heard from a Suriel he gav a new cloak and fed a chicken. Or three chickens. A lot of chicken was involved. And the spell that wakes it up came from a children's book."

Rhys, for once, was speechless.

"I'll explain more later." A group of soldiers approached the strange creature, who looked at them with a wide, inhuman smile and turned in their direction. She said something that Rhys could not quite hear, and one of the soldiers was impaled on a spike made from the rock of the earth before the others even realized anything had happened. More spikes grew as they ran. They couldn't move fast enough to avoid the earth itself. "Go to Lucien and Cas and Az. Help them as best you can without Amarantha noticing."

"Mor, about Cas and Az... don't trust them, something's wrong with them, she put on some kind of spell-"

"Not any longer," Mor said, with a smile. "We broke Amarantha's spell. They're free." They hugged again, he held her as tightly as he could. The Morrigan, in all her armor, his little cousin, his almost-sister.

"If anyone could, it'd be you," He whispered into her hair. "Thank you, Mor, for that. For getting my brothers back."

One less piece of Amarantha's control. Finally. Something good happened in the fifty-year nightmare he'd been living in.

_Hey, I'm something good. _Tamlin's voice was fainter than it had been, as if he had to work harder to speak through the bond.

_I'm sending my cousin Mor. You'll know her when you see her. You'll remember. __Just hold on, Spring._

"I didn't want you to see me like this," He said, quietly. "On her leash."

"You're as strong as you ever were, Rhys," Mor said, putting a hand to the side of his face. "Whatever she's told you down there, you've never been made weak. We would have loved to see you, leash and all. This is going to end, and when it does... let's talk about how making yourself a martyr is less noble than you think it is, okay?" Then she looked behind him, back down the hill, thoughtfully.

"Go get him," He said to Mor, kissing her forehead. She closed her eyes, leaning into him. "There's a stone house on the corner of Yggrad and Pettigru. She's in there with him. Save Tamlin."

She nodded, turned, and ran into the fray, sword out. She immediately clashed with a group of soldiers, and Rhys watched her sword swing, the Morrigan in battle, as she cut them down one by one by one, unbothered. Those fierce eyes were focused back down the road, somewhere Tamlin was huddled in the corner of a sitting room where all the furniture had been shoved against the walls.

He watched her until she was so deep into Amarantha's army he couldn't see her any longer. Then, he turned back around, upping the number of falling rocks. Amarantha couldn't guess. She couldn't know that Mor was on her way. He had to keep this up.

Hope. Rhys hated hope - so often, hope had been the prelude to disaster. To losing something else.

The thing in Tamlin's mortal lover's body made it to him and Rhys stared at it, thinking he was probably meant to be more intimidated than he was. The glassy white eyes, the silvery scars that traced where Rhys remembered, with horrible clarity, Amarantha simply ripping the poor girl's body apart. A mortal he had been ordered to kill and refused, thinking as she died of dreams he'd had, strange dreams. Amarantha had forced him to spend days locked in the chains after that.

He had thought to himself, in that last moment as the pain lit up every nerve and Feyre's final scream choked itself into silence, that he was done taking things away from Tamlin. That he would no longer be to Tamlin's life what Amarantha had been to his. And as if she'd somehow known it, Amarantha had forced him to be the one to escort Tamlin back to her anyway.

"_You are Amarantha's champion,_" The thing said, and in its voice he heard a thousand women, clamoring for revenge at injustice, clamoring for death. "_You are soaked in the scent of desperation. This body hated you for your cruelty._"

Rhys flinched. _Play a part long enough, and no one knows it's a mask and not your face. _"Well, that's a lovely way to start a conversation," He said flatly. "You smell like brimstone and ice and Feyre didn't know me at all. How do _you_ like it?" The darkness of the sky began to find its way to earth. He felt himself pushing his own well of power to its limits, as the darkness fell around them, soaked into them, turned everything but the faelights into total blindness. Soldiers fighting began to call out to each other. But Rhys could still see.

And so, apparently, could Lucien's mortal god.

"_It is not a role you play willingly,_" The god said. "_Interesting. You despair of ever escaping. You do not want to fight me._"

"I want you to slaughter her armies," Rhys said, calmly. "I want you to tear them down."

"_I have no quarrel with you. Stay out of my way._" The god turned and walked away, into the darkness. Where she stepped, he heard screaming begin, felt a rumble in the earth as those giant spikes continued to erupt.

Rhys felt himself, slowly, smile. Amarantha wasn't going to like this at _all_.

He walked forward, continuing his slow progress through the darkness, walking along familiar streets that he no longer recognized. He stepped over rubble, over bodies, just staring ahead of himself.

Cas and Az found him, eventually, both of them flushed from the fight.

"Rhys!" It was really Cas, this time, really _him, _and Rhys hugged him. After a second, he felt Az throw himself at his back and hug him that way. It occurred to him how absolutely ridiculous this must look, three grown males hugging like children in the middle of the street, but he decided he just did not care.

_Are… you all right? _Tamlin's voice was thinner than ever, stretched along the bond between them.

_Found my brothers, _Rhys murmured. _Mor freed them. Are you all right?_

_I'm glad for you, Rhys. _

"Where have you been?" Az asked, his voice shaking slightly. Az's shadows slid around him as well, wrapping themselves around Rhys in their own kind of embrace.

"Busy," Rhys answered, and at least part of the world was better than it had been a few minutes ago.

_My brothers._

"We're sorry about… whatever you saw before," Cas murmured, as they stayed clasped together for a few more seconds, letting fifty years of missing each other settle between them. "We don't remember any of it."

"No, I wouldn't imagine you would. If I tell you it was all horribly embarrassing, would you believe me?"

"We would," Az winced, finally pulling back. "I'm pretty sure I drank blood. I'm currently trying not to throw up and find out."

"Meanwhile,_ I've_ decided to completely repress what I did, and we will never ever speak of it ever again." Cas's face flushed bright red, and then he stared around them at the void that had snaked its way through Valeris's streets. "I assume this is your doing?"

"I'm trying to keep Amarantha from noticing I'm not doing_ anything _right now," Rhys said softly. "And shield Mor while she makes her way down there. She's going back for him."

"Him?" Cas's eyebrows knitted together.

"Tamlin."

He and Az shared a look, one Rhys could not quite read. "Right," Cas said softly. "Him."

They heard screaming to their left, and Rhys frowned. "If this works, how do we get that _thing_ to leave when it's done?"

"You'll have to ask Lucien about that," Cas said, shrugging. "It was all _his_ idea."

"... and where_ is_ Lucien?"

"Killing Amarantha's army," Cas replied easily. "His sword has a real thing for blood."

"Most swords do."

Azriel shook his head, that ghost smile on his face. "Not like this. Lucien is _not _that good at sword-fighting, but that thing he's wielding is cutting them down in droves."

Rhys looked around, and smiled. "I think in the darkness, she won't know what I'm up to," He said, softly. "I say we cut down as many of Amarantha's soldiers as we can while we have this chance, and head back to give Mor backup. Are you with me?"

"Always," Cas said, smiling widely.

"Together," Azriel nodded.

The three of them stood, drew their blades, and then walked forward into the fight.


	44. Chapter 44

Mor had slaughtered them without care, without guilt, without worry over what families they might have at home. Her own family, this great and beautiful city, was being torn down to its foundations. She had no mercy left in her for those who fought willingly for Amarantha's crown.

She was a flowing wind, she was a river of blood. Where Mor and her sword and her power went, they fell, and fell, and fell. She was panting by the end, covered in sweat underneath her armor, it stung as it dripped into her eyes and down her face like tears, made its way into the scratches and other wounds she'd taken. Worn out and tired, so tired, the way she was always tired after the fight.

But still they died.

She felt led to Amarantha, inexorably pulled. She would go and save Rhys's mate, and then with all his power returned, he could free himself. Stop destroying Valeris. He could come home and end his half-century nightmare, once and for all.

Then they could hunt down her father and very, very slowly murder him, together.

The Darkbringers still fought, although many had been cut down. The wounded were being dragged away to try and find healers. Others simply lay where they'd fallen, and Mor stepped over them, trying not to think about it beyond a rush of gratitude that her little brother had come to help, in the end. She hadn't seen him among the bodies, although she'd heard he was here, somewhere, holding his own.

A deep blackness had dropped from the sky to the streets, making it difficult to see. But Mor, who had been part of Rhys's family her entire life, knew ways to see through just about anything Rhys could do. She was able to take a rest as she walked, avoiding clumps of soldiers, stepping this way or that to slip away from the meager faelights that gave the fighting troops the only real visibility they had.

Somewhere behind her, she could hear the god on its rampage, feel the rumble of the earth as the god remade Velaris into a charnel house. It was headed the same way she was, although much more slowly, and Mor was trying to beat it to Tamlin. She couldn't be sure if the god would know not to just kill him, too.

Amarantha had set herself up in one of the remaining buildings at the very back. Every inch the general, Mor thought, but for the cowardice that had her drafting plans in safety while her men fought and died for her.

Cas, she thought, would have sunk into the floor from embarrassment before he would have simply hidden from the fight entirely. He'd always insisted on leading right from the front. It was one reason the Illyrians respected him.

She followed the trace of Amarantha, the pull of her, the sense of inevitability, until she found the small stone house. There were faelights inside, and she could _feel _the malevolence that radiated out of it. There was a sharp cry, a thump. A man's voice, and then a woman's speaking quickly. She couldn't quite hear the words.

She crept around to the back, pressing herself against the stone wall until she found the door, opening it with slow, careful silence. Crept into the darkness in the back room of the home, nearly on all fours, her blade in one hand and ready.

Sweat had stuck strands of hair to her forehead and she frowned at the annoying itch, trying to ignore it. Through one doorway, into a dark hallway, she could see the flicker of the faelights reflected further down at the front of the house. She headed that way, one foot in front of the other, step by step.

She could hear them now.

"-don't even plan to put your capital here, do you?" A man's voice. Tamlin, she thought. He sounded so exhausted he could barely speak, his words half-slurred. She thought of Cas, lying in his bed, only waking long enough to drink a little water or use the bathroom. He had spoken like that, with those things on him.

"Ha." Amarantha. That voice was unmistakable. "Does it even matter?"

"You're _killing him_ with this."

"He is killing himself. For you, Tamlin, my love. It'll be _your fault _this whole city came down, won't it?"

"I didn't bring him here and force him into it," Tamlin's voice was so low it was nearly a growl. Mor took a risk, moving slowly past the open doorway to get to the other side, where she'd have a view of something other than a bare wooden wall.

They did not see her. Tamlin was sitting against the far wall near an unlit fireplace, his head hung to the side, a bit of golden hair in his eyes. Mor had seen him at parties all the time, especially when he and Rhys were friends. She'd never seen him so thin and drawn and pale. He had a fresh bruise blossoming on his neck, and weird scars that she couldn't quite make out in the dark on the other.

Amarantha had her back to the doorway Mor was hiding next to. This was the Amarantha Mor remembered from the war - the general, at first brilliant, then mad after the loss of her sister. This was the same black armor, the same hateful sword in its scabbard.

She thought of Amarantha, having watched her simply cut down swaths of soldiers on the battlefield, and shuddered.

"No. You just became his weakness. If only I'd figured out sooner I just needed to _create_ it, hm? Just give him someone to be weak _for_."

"Having a mate is not weakness. This… this didn't happen because of you."

Amarantha turned to look at him, and Mor could see her in profile, that sharp nose and pretty face. Nothing absurdly beautiful, just a pretty female, twisted into ugliness with centuries of hate. Jurian's eye was on her finger, as always, spinning rapidly. Mor could swear, as Amarantha raised her hand, that Jurian looked right at her. "Didn't it, though?" She asked softly.

Tamlin looked away. "Why are you even doing this?" He asked, quietly. "You have everything you wanted."

"Your _mate,_" She said with an ugly sneer, "was right about one thing, Tamlin my darling. I am a bottomless well. And I will never be filled."

"So you're… doing this from what? Spite?"

"Something like that." Amarantha laughed, a wild trill of sound that hurt Mor's ears to hear. "When I invade Hybern-'

"When you _what?_"

"-he will be dead inside. He'll have crossed that final threshold. Torn down the only thing that kept him from being my creature entirely. I won't need to hold him back by then. We will take Hybern, and we'll get that power, too. I know my King has his eyes on using the Cauldron to unmake things as they are." Her eyes narrowed, staring off into space. "I think I would remake the world better than he. Once I have the Cauldron and the King of Hybern under my sway, then I will finally have time to turn my eyes to the continent. And I will rule it all, with Rhys as my champion and my weapon. He has more power than any High Lord in thousands of years after all. There's probably some half-cocked prophecy about it somewhere. It would be a pity to waste all that power on insignificance like the Night Court or Prythian alone."

Tamlin snorted, putting his hands up over his face. "You are completely insane."

"Maybe. But insanity got me this far, didn't it? Besides, I think the King will be impressed when I have him locked up just like you. Don't think I'll let you walk away from this, either. You'll serve me still, the both of you, until there is nothing left."

Tamlin began to inch along the wall, moving further away from her.

"None of that, my darling," Amarantha said playfully. She left the table she'd been standing at, covered in papers that were no doubt updates on the pitched fight taking place outside in Rhys's darkness, and walked over to him, crouching down in front of him. The plates of her armor shifted around as she moved, adjusted to her posture expertly. She took his chin in her hand, turned him back to face her.

"You should be _flattered_," She said, watching his face. "How many of us can say we have lovers who will tear themselves apart for us? He takes his own home down brick by brick... for you. And all you had to do was be the only thing you were ever really meant to be - a good fuck."

Tamlin did not lower his eyes this time. "What will you do when he's done? When you've forced him to destroy the only thing he still cared about and nothing is left?"

"I'll tell him to give his power back to me. He will return to my court a broken man. I'll luxuriate in it. Then, when he is truly drowning in his own guilt, when he hates himself so fully that he will do anything, _anything _to stop thinking about what he has done... we'll set our sights higher than Under the Mountain. I imagine he will leap at the chance to take all his anger and turn it something constructive... even if I'm the one who tells him where to aim."

"He wouldn't give you his power back. You had to trick him - trick _all of us_ \- the first time."

"He will, if he wants you to live, won't he?" Amarantha leaned forward, pressing her lips to Tamlin's, and Mor averted her eyes. "You know, I've been thinking that Thesan might be an interesting next step," Amarantha said thoughtfully. "He doesn't even like females. It'd be interesting to see if I could break him just from that. I'll clip his lover's pretty wings, see what sort of effect that has."

Tamlin was staring at her with unbridled loathing.

"You looked like that the first time I wanted you," Amarantha said, gently. Somehow her gentleness was worse than her anger ever had been. "That same look on your face. You were so young, you should have _jumped _at the chance. But you said no."

"I wanted someone else at the time," Tamlin ground out. "Someone better than you."

Amarantha laughed, a trill of sound that rang like bells off-key from age and corruption. "Who?"

Tamlin's eyes cut to the side, but something in his expression softened, just slightly. "Someone better."

"If I had only offered a higher price, I would have owned you so much sooner, first body, then soul. And these..." She trailed her fingertips across the silver cuffs. Tamlin looked away from her, eyes narrow with impotent fury. "These would have been your skin, for the rest of your life. As they now will be. Just a few hundred years later than I originally planned, hm? I had so many _plans, _when you were young, for what I could turn you into."

"My father did not wish to sell me like a prize mare," Tamlin spat, but the words had no weight behind them and both he and Amarantha seemed to know it.

Amarantha chuckled. "You were barely a man, and a younger son. You were just a tool, and you would have been better wielded by me. I would have trained you to my pleasure much more quickly, then. You'd have been a jewel, Tamlin."

"Only mortals were slaves, then," Tamlin said. His voice was faint.

"First time for everything," Amarantha whispered. Her hand began to trail down Tamlin's chest, undoing the buttons of his shirt. He did not move, or try to stop her. Her hand slid down the hard planes of his stomach and he swallowed, hard. "How much time do you think we have before the next updates come?"

"I don't want to do this," Tamlin hissed.

"One thing that you should have learned over the last several centuries, Tamlin," Amarantha said, a little sadly, "is that I do not give a damn what you want. The only thing in your entire life that will ever matter again is what _I _want."

Mor wanted to kill her, for speaking this way to Rhysand's mate. For speaking this way to _anyone. _The room they were in was simply too small to fight well in, and she needed to find better ground. Mor frowned, taking her time moving back across the doorway to head back the way she had come.

Unfortunately, the faelights caught her armor as she moved. And this time, Amarantha didn't have her back to the doorway.

Amarantha's head snapped in her direction. "What was that?" She hissed.

Mor froze.

Tamlin turned to look as well, and for one fraction of a second, he and Mor met eyes, and she knew as soon as they did that Tamlin recognized her. His eyes flared slightly, and he grabbed at Amarantha, yanking her back down to him, trying to hold on to her arms.

Amarantha shoved him back and kicked him against the wall, turning in Mor's direction.

Mor was already halfway back down the hallway, tripping over a bucket and broom she hadn't seen before, crashing to the ground, and back up again, flinging herself out the door. Amarantha must be right behind her, she could hear her armored boots on the floor. Mor threw herself around the corner of the house, racing for the streets, hearing Amarantha at her heels.

She needed a better place to fight than in a close hallway, a small room. She needed open ground, with plenty of space. Just a little further...

She heard Amarantha cursing and chanced a look over her shoulder, to see that Tamlin had followed them out, managing to catch Amarantha to slow her down. She hit him across the face and while he fell back, he was already standing back up, wiping at his mouth with one hand.

It gave Mor the time she needed. She ran out of the alley into the street, where Rhys's darkness had blurred all the features into a grey nothing, a fog so complete she couldn't even see the house across the street. She came to a stop, put her blade out, set her feet in the ground, and waited.

When Amarantha appeared, she was walking, casually, easily. But Mor could see the fury in her eyes from where she stood "And who are _you_, then?" The mad queen asked, letting the tip of her sword drag along the street, scraping impossibly loudly in the unnatural, smothering quiet.

Mor drew herself up to her full height. "I am here to reclaim what belongs to the Night Court."

"What? This city?" Amarantha looked around, at the nothing she could see. "Last I checked, it's rubble. Not much to reclaim. Thanks to Rhys, of course."

Mor leveled her sword at Amarantha. "The rubble is ours to rebuild, not yours to tear down. I come to reclaim our lord. Leave, Amarantha, or face me in battle."

"What?" Amarantha just stared at her, blankly, then began to laugh. "You can't be serious. You're a child."

"I am not. I fought against you in the war."

Amarantha looked mildly impressed, stepping back slightly on one foot. Mor could see, behind her, Tamlin slowly catching up with them, could see how much work it took his tired body to put one foot in front of the other as he stepped out from the darkness into the weak faelight in the street. "Oh, did you? I don't remember you."

"You wouldn't. But I remember _you_."

The two women faced each other down, beginning to move in a slow circle. Mor had already fought Cas tonight. She'd fought troops in the streets on the way here. She was worn down, and Amarantha was fresh. This was not going to be easy.

She took the first swing, throwing power into it, trying to get the other female off balance. Amarantha had her own blade up to defend. Their blades clashed and rang against each other, and they circled each other again. Mor kept her arms in tight at her sides, trying to move only when she needed to, to conserve her energy.

Amarantha took the next swing, and Mor countered by simply spinning away from her. She feinted to the left, then took a swing to the right, which nearly caught the mad queen. She pulled back at the last second, and Mor groaned inwardly in frustration.

"Why draw me into a sword fight?" Amarantha asked, her voice calm for once. She stepped forward with a slash that Mor avoided neatly, then parried with her own. Amarantha managed to evade it, but nearly stumbled, and Mor found herself smiling, just slightly.

There was no more talking as they fought in earnest, blade against blade, power lacing their blows. Here, in person, Amarantha was shorter than she remembered. In person, Mor realized that she had a chance. She was wearing down, but still, she had a chance.

"I told you," Mor finally hissed, as their blades met and scraped against each other. "I am here to reclaim what belongs to the Night Court. You have wronged us. You have wronged my lord, and wronged his mate. I am here to reclaim my lord's mate and return him to my lord's side." She leveled her blade at the mad queen.

"Who the fuck _are you, _to challenge the High Queen?" Amarantha's voice was low, and dark, and promised a terrible retribution.

Mor smiled at her, as the wind picked up, whipping the strands of golden hair that had escaped her low bun around her face. Rhys must be getting close enough to hear them. He'd always had a flair for dramatics. "I am the Morrigan, your Majesty."

"And?"

"And I am here to _kick your ass_."

Amarantha let out a scream of fury and ran at her, and Mor nearly fell under the flurry of blows, just barely staving her off. The pain of it rang up her arms but in the moment, she barely noticed. This wasn't trying to defend herself against a friend, this wasn't fighting anonymous soldiers in the street. This was the woman who had taken Rhys from her, who had taken so much from all of Prythian, who had chained up Cas like a dog. This was evil incarnate. Mor snarled as she swung her sword.

Blades clashed. Mor fell back, then ran forward, and pushed Amarantha back. This was not elegant, or particularly well-planned-out. This was hardly the elegance most people thought of when they thought of sword fights - no, this was brutal and exhausting, two women trying to bash each other to death with blades. Neither of them quite able to take the other down.

Mor could feel her fingers going numb from the constant impacts, slid power into them to try and insulate it. She was bleeding from one arm and one leg, didn't dare waste the power it would take to heal. Keeping her full concentration on Amarantha, she began to notice the mad queen favored blows from her right side. Mor began to adjust her own attacks to take advantage.

The darkness around them was beginning to recede, even as the wind picked up more.

Amarantha came at her again and this time she managed to defend against it, twisting Amarantha's blade against her, pushing her back to the edge of the circle of shadows around them. She was forcing Amarantha to play defense, got a good hit in her ribcage, felt Amarantha's armor give under her blade. Mor's face became a snarl - this was it, she _had her-_

The high queen stumbled back hissing in pain, and made a fist with her free hand. "_Verit sema._"

Behind her, Tamlin, who had only just stood up, put his hands up to his neck, staring at Mor with wide eyes. Blood began to run out underneath. She couldn't hear him from here, not over the wind, but his mouth moved, as though he were trying to speak. She caught herself midway through a swing and paused.

_Damn it all. She cheats._

"This isn't fun anymore." Amarantha said, slowly closing the fist tighter. "Drop your blade."

Mor let her eyes cut to Tamlin, watching him bleed, keeping her expression impassive. "If he dies, Rhys will rip your heart out of your chest," She said calmly.

"If he dies, it would be on you, wouldn't it? Do you think Rhys would forgive you? When you were so obviously sent on a _rescue mission_?"

Mor pressed her lips together. "He would understand, if I put Velaris first."

"Would he?" Amarantha smiled. Her fist tightened just a bit more. Mor refused to look as she heard Tamlin make a choked-off, strangled sound. "Or do you think he would be angrier about the loss of his mate, so soon after they found each other? That he would pretend to understand, and yet blame you for it? That it would poison him, over decades, into something darker than ever?"

Mor took in a breath through her mouth, slowly let it out through her nose. Finally, she held out her blade, and tossed it at Amarantha's feet. She could feel Rhys, Cas, and Az, coming closer, knew her backup was nearly here. "There."

Amarantha opened her hand, and Tamlin groaned. Mor did her best to heal him from afar. Mor watched him push himself to his feet, his eyes on Amarantha's back. She could have sworn a _ripple _went through Tamlin, over the top of his skin, a hint of claws. It was just as quickly gone.

"You're quite the fighter," Amarantha said, picking up Mor's sword, sheathing her own. "I'm impressed. I don't suppose you're looking for a new job, since I've probably had Rhys tear down whatever building you currently work in? I could use capable fighters."

"I'm... good, thanks," Mor said, beginning to back up. She couldn't rescue him here; this had gone wrong, somehow, all wrong. "Rhys will destroy you."

Amarantha stepped forward, grabbing her by one wrist. "No," She said with brilliant, shining eyes. Mor froze, staring into those eyes, unable to so much as breathe. "He won't. I've found the weakness that breaks him. And I don't intend to let it go. Two weaknesses now."

Amarantha's head turned slightly to the side, and Mor followed her gaze. As Rhys stepped out of the shadows, flanked by Cassian and Azriel, the mad queen twisted Mor's arm hard, spun her around, and held her own blade to her neck.

The three males froze where they stood.

"Hello, lovers," Amarantha said, sweetly.

* * *

_You have to protect him._

He could not find the beast, it was locked too far away from him. He tried, and nothing more than a bare shade of it came to him before Amarantha's magic locked it away. Tamlin groaned, the ache in his throat and wrists barely healed.

Rhys stood, his hands empty and in the air, watching Amarantha would surprisingly calm violet eyes. Along the mating bond, though, Tamlin could feel his anguish, his hate, his guilt and his self-loathing. "Amarantha. What are you doing?"

"Insurance," Amarantha murmured. "I think we'll be quite finished here soon, won't we? So you'll do one more thing for me."

"What?" Rhys asked, keeping his hands up. Azriel began to circle out to one side, Cassian to the other, their Siphons coming to life. A circle of red and blue made its way around them, shields to keep everyone else out.

No soldiers to back her up. Amarantha's eyes narrowed. "I wondered why I couldn't feel my killer any longer."

Cas did not lower his eyes. He slid both blades out, turning them slightly inward, pointed down. "I'm not your killer."

"Ah, but you were, weren't you? Your weakness was easy enough to find. Pretty, to boot. It wasn't exactly hard to convince you, and I can see why. I don't fuck animals, but I'd make an exception for that one." Amarantha, Tamlin thought, always knew where to dig, how to needle in, how to exploit the fae to weaken them and turn them on each other. If Amarantha had any true power, that was it; she knew a weakness, and knew how to use it. "Of course, if I had asked for him an hour ago, you'd have undressed him and delivered him to me yourself, wouldn't you? Oh, I should have _done that._"

Cas's face darkened in shame. Azriel only glared.

"Stop it," Rhys snapped.

Rhys's cousin was here, trying to fight for him, and losing. His brothers were here, but could do nothing. Rhys himself was twisted and tied up in knots. They were always losing to Amarantha, always falling into her traps, her games. Always failing to outwit her, to outsmart her. She out-hunted them, every time.

Tamlin tried to keep moving, although he still ached, only half-healed. He was Rhys's biggest weakness, the thing that had brought down Velaris. An unwillingness to lose him.

_Protect him._

Tamlin focused on moving one inch at a time. Rhys's eyes flickered to him, but he stayed frozen. He didn't dare move even a step, Tamlin thought. Afraid she'd make him bleed again.

Amarantha smiled, slowly, her wicked mad smile. "You're going to give your power back to me, or she dies. Her, I'm not particularly attached to. Are... _you_ attached to her?" She let the sword cut Mor a little harder, and Mor grunted as blood ran down her neck. Az and Cas both jumped, just a little, and her smile widened. "Ah, so you _are _attached to her."

_Not her, too._ No more weaknesses for Rhys to fall victim to.

"Even if he gives you his power back," Az said, in a calm, deadly voice. "I will disembowel you while forcing you to tell me the name of every organ I remove from your body." His daggers in hand, Azriel took a step closer to her, rage in those usually calm eyes.

"Will you?" Amarantha turned her gaze on him, trying to keep all three of them in her line of sight, even as Mor went very still. There was a hint of fire, a badly-controlled flame, that wrapped around her wrists, burning into them. Mor cried out at the pain and Azriel froze where he stood.

"I have many different powers to try out on her," Amarantha said softly, pleasantly, as though she and Azriel were speaking of the weather. "Thanks to my lovely, gullible High Lords. Would you like to see how each affects her? See if maybe she can learn how to breathe around a spike of ice down her throat?" When Azriel did not answer, Amarantha frowned and the flames cut more deeply into Mor's hands. She cried out again and Azriel stumbled, as though fighting the urge to run to her.

"I _asked,_" Amarantha said quietly, "if you would like to see."

Azriel swallowed, hard. "No."

"Good boy. Who says animals can't be trained? Now, Rhys, we have business to attend to, don't we?"

Rhys only stared at her, a terrible emptiness on his face.

Tamlin's eyes narrowed and he tried to stand. _You will not break him._

"_Do you want your chance for vengeance, fae?_" whispered a thousand screaming female voices into his head. "_I do not heal, I cannot fix, but I can lift your head above the water and you may choose to swim._"

Tamlin had an idea.

It was a really, really stupid idea, but it was the right thing to do, and Tamlin was done thinking only of himself.

_Rhys, tell Azriel to go to his left, and throw me one of those daggers._

_Why?_

_Trust me._

There was some wordless communication between Az and Rhys, and Az began to move to his left, his eyes on Tamlin now. Taking his time. Slowly, slowly…

"I'll do it," Rhys said softly. "I will. But you have to let her go. No more hostages, Amarantha. You have what you need to keep me in line."

"I do," Amarantha said thoughtfully, "Don't I?" She took a small vial out of a pouch on her armor's belt, dropped it to the ground, and kicked it over to Rhys without moving the sword at Mor's neck at inch. "Drink that and she goes free."

"You and your Cauldron-damned _potions,_" Rhys hissed. "At least last time you buried the taste of it in wine."

"Don't drink it," Cas said fiercely. "We can figure this out. Don't do it."

Azriel had gotten closer, but Amarantha's eyes were too often on him. He kept the dagger in his hand, and Tamlin watched and waited for his chance.

_What are you going to do? _Rhys's voice through the mating bond, as Tamlin watched him pick up Amarantha's vial, remove the stopper, stare into it with dread.

Tamlin did not answer him.

Rhys drank everything in the vial in one gulp. Tamlin watched his body shake, _felt _the tearing loss through the bond, felt the scream that Rhys barely held back behind gritted teeth as he fell to his knees, elbows on the ground, back arched with pain. It hurt no less for being the second time around. Tamlin the only other person here who knew _exactly_ how it felt.

"Good boy," Amarantha said softly, her own eyelids fluttering at the rush of power back into her. "That's my good boy." She shoved Mor away, who stumbled forward. Cas caught her in his arms as the darkness around them began to lift. Mor healed her own wounds, her eyes wide with apparent horror at the mess they were in.

"Now. I'm not very good at it, since this power isn't really mine, so... it's going to hurt. But that's less a problem for me than it is for you, hm? I suggest all of you kneel to your queen." Amarantha looked at them and Cas, Mor, and Azriel all went suddenly still. There was a visible struggle, but eventually all three of them fell to their knees. Mor kept her chin high, eyes wide, but Cas and Az curled over themselves, wings shivering, muscles shaking.

The air around them was dark with Rhys's grief and pain, a kind of shadow-fog that roiled around the streets, fighting with itself, hemming them into a tiny dim circle where they stood, a cold wind blowing around them, making him shiver. Tamlin may not have had power like this, but in this moment, it wasn't power that was a strength. Or at least not that kind of power.

"A general, a shadowsinger, and a soldier," Amarantha mused. "What use I can make of you three, hm?" She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "My King will definitely respect a Queen with _two _Illyrian pets..."

Cas's eyes flared, and he tried to push himself up, to push back against her, but the pressure of her badly-controlled daemati powers was too great.

The thousand voices spoke again, for Tamlin alone. One voice in particular was louder than the others. "_This body loved you__._"

_Yes, _he whispered back._ I loved you, Feyre. _

_"Do you want your chance, Tamlin?" _It could have been her, could have been, if not for the other voices around hers, above and below.

_Feyre. Give me my chance._

"_I am not Feyre. Tell me when to let you out._"

He needed to be closer.

"Cauldron save me," He said, softly, staggering forward. Azriel began, with terrible deliberation, to push himself back up off the ground, his muscles shaking from the effort. "Mother hold me. G-Guide me t-to you. May I pass through the g-gates, and smell the immortal land of milk and hah… honey." Tamlin's voice was hoarse, half gone, and each word, each breath, was a blade through his throat and into his lungs.

"What?" Amarantha's head turned, as she looked down at him. "What did you say?"

He saw Mor's hands start to close into fists, as she pushed back against Amarantha's influence, the high queen distracted by Tamlin, and began to force herself back onto her feet. Cas was fighting it, rage flickering over his face, his hand shaking with the effort, going for a blade. Azriel stood up, one dagger left in his hand. Rhys was still crouched on the ground, no doubt still trapped in the pain Tamlin remembered well after the loss of power. He thought of them all at the party, lying in agony. It had taken an hour before Tamlin had been able to stand back up.

_I have been the ruin of your life, _he sent down the bond. _Be free, Rhys. _The pain and fear at the thought twisted through him but Tamlin had spent most of two years in constant pain, and you… you can get used to anything, in the end.

Rhys looked up at him, and his violet eyes were clouded. He would have known, Tamlin thought, if he hadn't been so wrecked from losing his power again. He would have known and tried to stop him. _Tamlin, what are you doing?_

"I fear no evil."

_I love you, Nightmare. I'd love you again, in any world._

"I feel no pain."

_Spring, what are you- no-_

_Now, Feyre, _He thought. And he felt the mortal god slice apart Amarantha's net over him, felt himself... free. The beast waited only to be called. The earth responded to him again, or would have, except for the silver cuffs draining his power faster than he could grasp it. Underneath that, a more important freedom, the one he_ really_ needed.

_Hurt her._

He took in a deep breath at the lightness of it. Amarantha's eyes narrowed and she began, slowly, to turn to him, as she realized she was no longer in control of him. Azriel, holding the dagger by its blade, simply threw it, and Tamlin caught the hilt in his right hand.

He bared his teeth at Amarantha. "I will go, you bitch, and enter eternity."

_NO-_

In one smooth motion, he pulled Amarantha back against his chest and buried the dagger in her heart, all the way to the hilt, buried it in so deeply he half expected to stab himself with it, too.

The spikes in the cuffs erupted into his skin, and he stumbled back before he could twist the knife, an agony too deep to grasp taking hold. Blood poured down his throat into his lungs. He tried to cough it up but the air would not come.

Amarantha growled and slowly, inexorably pulled the dagger out of her own chest, teeth ground together, slowly beginning to heal the wound.

Tamlin collapsed, his eyes rolling slowly up to the black sky.

_Kill her, _he managed to send down the bond.

It hadn't been enough, in the end.

But there were so many stars, and the night was beautiful.


	45. Chapter 45

_Rhys was bored._

_He was at one of the interminable parties held by the Day Court, not even trying to make a good impression. His father was around here somewhere lording it up over anyone he could find, and to be frank, Rhys genuinely just did not have the energy to deal with it. _

_He leaned against a wall, sipping something delightfully alcoholic, thinking that the quality of the drink was basically all the Day Court had going for it, in his opinion. He could see his mother across the room, chatting happily with Helion, who did not seem to be _actively _trying to get her into bed, but hey, the night was young._

_Rhys had worn a loose black shirt and pants, and was sort of hoping that standing around in the corner in all black glaring at everyone would make sure no one spoke to him at all. He liked to think he looked at least a little intimidating._

"_Hey." He turned and saw the Spring Lord's younger son, whose name he couldn't remember, standing next to him. He was smiling widely and holding a mostly-empty glass of wine. Rhys vaguely remembered that he was the youngest of several males, still growing out of the elbows-and-knees stage as his aging had begun to slow down, like Rhys himself. He wore a brilliant emerald green shirt and brown pants in some soft fabric. _

_Rhys privately thought he looked like a dandy and hoped he hadn't picked that outfit out himself, even if it did kind of make his eyes seem greener and bring out his tan._

"_Hey," Rhys said, putting all his boredom into his voice, hoping the lordling would just leave him alone and let him be dramatically miserable some more._

"_I'm Tamlin," The golden-haired young High Fae said, and held out his hand. "You're Rhys, right? Rhysand? I was just talking to your sister. Are you as funny as she is?"_

_Rhys, despite himself, smiled. He shook Tamlin's hand, noting that he had rough hands, calloused fingers. So not a lord to sit around the manor and let everyone else do all the work, for what it was worth. Which officially made him better than any of the others Rhys had met so far. "It's Rhys, if I like you, and I'm really not funny at all. Sadly, my little sister appears to have gotten all the humor in the family. She'd tell you she got the looks and brains, too, although I'm inclined to argue over ONE of those things. And you'd better not be getting any ideas about her."_

_Tamlin laughed out loud. "No offense, but after speaking with her, I think I'm more scared of your sister than you. Did you know she brought ten blades to this party? She bet me I couldn't guess where she kept all of them, said if I lost I'd have to drink three glasses of wine as fast as I could."_

"_And?"_

"_And now I'm three glasses of wine drunker and terrified of a girl who doesn't even come up to my chin. Who brings that many knives to a party?"_

_Rhys smirked_. "_If you'd ever been to a Night Court party, you might understand her motivations. Besides, my brothers taught her to do that."_

_"You have to bring knives for protection to a Night Court party?"_

_"Sometimes. You don't just carry a knife all the time?"_

_"Well, sure, when I'm home - we end up going hunting a lot - but to a party?"_

_"You like to hunt? I guess you would, down in Spring. Is that why your hands have callouses?"_

_Tamlin raised an eyebrow. "You noticed my hands?" There was an edge to the question, something either curious or defensive, he wasn't sure which._

_Rhys snorted. "Just trying to make conversation with a stranger I know nothing about. I'm sure I can come up with something more interesting if I know you a little better." Damn it, he shouldn't have said that. Now the Spring lordling was going to assume he actually wanted to get to know him._

_Well. Didn't he? Tamlin seemed nice enough. It couldn't hurt._

_"I have callouses, for your information, because I mostly live at my father's war camps. Just because you're the High Lord's son doesn't mean you don't dig your share of holes in the ground, you know?"_

_"Why are you... never mind. Yes, __Night Court parties are usually best attended with at least one blade on your person at all times."_

_"I've never been invited to the Night Court. My father says you're all amoral schemers."_

_"Does he now?" Rhys smirked. "Where would he get that idea?"_

_"Probably all the amoral scheming."_

_Rhys found himself laughing, and Tamlin smiled in response. "I should be offended by that."_

_"Well... are you?"_

_"No. You're right. We are all amoral schemers. My father says the Spring Court is full of pretentious morons full of delusions of grandeur."_

_It was Tamlin's turn to laugh. "Spot on. Although you'll find I'm actually a feral mongrel dog they keep chucking over to the war camps so I won't accidentally embarrass them in public. Or so my brothers tell me."_

_"That's my favorite kind of mongrel," Rhys replied, startled to hear real warmth in his own voice. He could have sworn Tamlin's face turned redder and found the idea didn't bother him as much as he'd thought it would. This conversation wasn't at all what he had thought it would be. "They're the only kind I'd ever find interesting, anyway." Something about the young Spring Lord brought out the worst in him - or the best, which in the Night Court was kind of the same thing. "You want to come to one of our parties? I could escort you. There's one coming up, one of the high families is hosting. I mean, you'd have to let me help you pick your outfit though, you can't wear_ that _there."_

_"What? Why not?" Tamlin looked down at himself, then back up. "It looks clean enough, doesn't it? Honestly, I didn't even actually pick this. One of the servants did. I mostly just wear standard issue from the camps. My father made me wear what the servants picked."_

_"You have no idea how happy I am to learn you did not choose that shirt. As far as parties, I'd be willing to sponsor you-"_

"_Does that officially mean I'm invited?" Tamlin grinned at him, and Rhys, despite himself, smiled back. The wine made his green eyes, with their odd golden flecks, sparkle. Tamlin tilted his head, just slightly, and Rhys found himself surprisingly charmed by it. His new acquaintance clearly didn't have half the duplicity Rhys was used to - every expression had been so damn _genuine. _It was fascinating._

_Cas and Az would hate Tamlin, he thought, would hate all this unguarded enthusiasm, but... Cas and Az weren't here._

"_Sure. Consider yourself officially invited, as long as I get to approve of your outfit first. My… brothers and I don't see each other much, I could use a guest of my own. But don't try and court my sister, or you'll find out what she can do with all those blades."_

_Tamlin's voice lowered, just slightly._ "_Maybe it's not your sister I'm interested in." _

"_What?" Rhys asked sharply, sure he must have heard incorrectly. _

_There was a pause that lasted just a moment too long. "I mean, there have to be plenty of females at the Night Court who _aren't _related to the High Lord, right?" _

* * *

In the back of his mind, he heard Tamlin say, faintly, _kill her, _as he slid gracelessly to the ground, eyes slowly looking up to the darkness above. Rhysand's heart went cold as the constant thrumming presence of Tamlin at the other end of his mind went silent.

Amarantha's hands went up to the dagger in her chest, and she pulled it back out with a terrible determination, dropping it to the ground. The expression of fury on her face seemed to shake the air around them. "You," Amarantha said sharply, her eyes flicking to Azriel.

She dismissed Rhys entirely, saw no threat at all in him, his power drained from him once more, her magic closed so tightly around him and in so many layers that he could _feel _its constant constricting brush against his skin. _Tamlin is gone-_

_But you were supposed to stand beside me, _Rhys thought, irrationally. _You said you would be here._

"_You_ gave him the dagger," Amarantha said as she stalked in the shadowsinger's direction. "The rest of you - hold still. I want you to _see this._"

Rhys felt an immense weight crushing him into the ground and gasped. Stolen power, twisted, badly wielded by her. He couldn't move. He was too weakened by the after-effects of the poison, everything inside of him trying to tear itself to shreds without Tamlin's voice in the back of his mind. He couldn't calm down, couldn't push enough against it. The air pressed down on them and he had a wild moment of picturing a paper press turning pulped trees into the pages of books. He saw Mor crumple back to the ground, too. Azriel was forced onto his hands and knees, Cas lying prone with his wings nearly flat.

The wind blew around them, weaker now that Rhys's power had gone back to her, but still there. He couldn't feel his fingers.

_Tamlin is gone-_

They were pinned down by the sheer rage in her, fueling the power she had stolen from all of them. She stood over Azriel, let her fingertips trail over his wing, and then placed one boot against the small of his back and leaned over him. "You helped him try and _kill me._"

She grabbed onto Azriel's wing, just at the place where the bones met his shoulder blade, and began to tighten her grip, pressing her foot into his back at the same moment until he collapsed onto the ground entirely. Azriel let out a harsh groan as her fingernails dug into the thin, sensitive skin, letting out a grunt as she snapped one of the larger flight bones. "N-no," Azriel hissed. "My wings- mine-"

"Az," Cas gasped, pulling himself along the ground by his elbows in a desperate army-crawl as he pushed against the weight of the air. Rhys watched his worst nightmares coming to life, felt Amarantha's claws raking across their minds, the splash of red that ran down their thoughts and held him frozen where he lay.

"I'll make sure you never fly again, my beautiful boy," Amarantha said calmly. Her daemati power as compared to Rhys was like the difference between the careful cut of a healer's knife and having your head smashed in with a block of marble. Amarantha had no idea how to wield it, but that didn't mean it wasn't agony. Even a child could kill someone with a brick.

They were out of chances. Amarantha had won.

_Damn it, no. You are never out of chances. Get up. Get back up. Tamlin would take the blow and get back up. He __broke himself out before, in the garden... you can _do _this. How did Tamlin break it?_

Cas continued to crawl, forcing himself forward, somehow managing to push against her power to keep moving to Azriel. "Not him, you can't-"

"When beast is gone," Mor muttered, breathing in wheezing gasps, "stars will-... will soar- Damn it, Rhys, you better figure out how to soar-"

Rhys took one more deep breath and closed his eyes, fighting a cold agony inside his chest. He had to get his mind together. What had Tamlin said? Eris's brothers had threatened to hurt _him, _and Tamlin had thought-

_Protect them._

There was a cracking sound as she wrenched Az's left wing completely out of joint, his body gone rigid and white-faced with the pain of it. She broke each and every bone in his left wing, one by one, starting with the heavier bones that held him aloft. She let her fingertips trail as she made her careful way to the smaller, supportive bones that helped him navigate the currents of air. _Snap. Snap. Snap._ The expression on her face was one of beatific joy. _Snap. Snap. Snap._

The sound of each bone breaking in turn was sickening, as loud as cannon fire in his mind. With each new bone she broke, Az hissed a new curse, his eyes jammed shut as tightly as they would go.

"No," Cas was out of breath, his muscles shook with effort as he forced himself up onto his knees and threw one arm around Azriel's neck to hold onto him, his hand buried in the hair at the back of his neck. He tried to reach out with his other hand, to push Amarantha away.

She laughed at him, an angry sound without humor, and said softly "You can't touch me."

Cas hissed through his teeth, his head jerking back as she slammed daemati power against him with no real focus or ability to control it, his hand forced back against his will by the command. Cas's nose was bleeding and, with her slamming stolen power against him, he had the glazed, dizzy look of a man who had just taken a blow to the head. "_Please,_ I'll do anything, just stop-"

"You're next," Amarantha said, her voice languid, smooth as silk. _Snap._ "I'd beg for your own wings, not his." _Snap._

"I don't give a_ fuck_ about my wings! Take them! Just don't hurt him!"

"Don't worry, darling. I'm going to hurt you _both_ until you never run again." Holding Azriel by her grip on his wing, she leaned over and let her free hand touch the top of Cas's head, tangled her fingers in his hair. He shook, Rhys thought with rage, but did not try to move again, looking down with eyes that glittered in the darkness. "Oh, look at that _anger_," She said, gently lifting his chin so he had to look up at her. "You Illyrians are such angry little High Lord pets. Do you think I'll ever let you see the sun again, little bird?"

The rage in his eyes was terrible and laced with something far worse. "No," Cas said, softly. "I won't see it again. You're taking me back down there." It wasn't a question.

"Both of you," Amarantha corrected. "I'll take you both home. Say it, animal. Say you're going home." She twisted her grip on Azriel's wing and the shadowsinger let out an unwilling, soft 'haaaaaaaaah' of pain.

Cas's whole body jerked at once, as though fighting to get back on his feet, but he could not move. None of them could. "Both of us," Cas echoed hoarsely, hopelessly. "You're taking us both home."

"Each must lose a battle..." Mor muttered, spitting the words out between gritted teeth.

_I am Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, and I am going to protect them._

He thought of Tamlin breaking her hold in the Night Garden, and tried to calm himself and _push. _Amarantha had run out of bones to break and was clearly angry at the lack of noise Azriel had made. Her eyes ran over him, and then she smiled, grimly. She took her hand back from Cas and gripped onto the base of Azriel's wing. With terrifying, deliberate slowness, she began to pull. The shadowsinger screamed, wordlessly, a high-pitched shriek of pain that hung in the air like an echo, burying his face into the side of Cassian's neck.

Rhys couldn't think, he couldn't _think _with Azriel's screaming, he had to stop, not Azriel too. "It's okay," He could hear Cas talking to Azriel, his other hand holding the back of Az's head, buried in that mop of unruly black hair. "It's gonna be okay, Az, sssshhhh…"

The soft soothing calm of his voice somehow cut right through Azriel's screams in Rhys's mind, cut through his roar of grief and fury and fear. Soothing calm and a resignation that burned like a brand in Rhysand's mind, clearing away his tangled fury and leaving in its place a well of cold fear.

_Cas had given up_.

"It's going to be okay, Az, I'll be with you." Cas's voice cracked, but he held it steady, even as Rhys could see the tear tracks down his face. "We'll be together. We'll be together down there, I can go back down there if I'm with you. Az, I love you so much, I've loved you _so much, _I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you-"

_Protect them. _He wasn't sure if it was Tamlin's voice or his own that said the words. He was so frightened for them, but that fear was crystalline, it was a blade, and he could wield it. He could do more with fear than he ever could have with fury.

_I am Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, and I will protect my brothers._

The other end of his mating bond with Tamlin, a fragile link that had been pulsing pain at him for so long, was so quiet now. He thought of Tamlin whispering _kill her _into the bond as he fell. She couldn't hold Tamlin over him to stop him any longer.

Rhysand took one more deep breath, pictured the calmness of the darkest hours of the night, when even the stars were faded beneath the hush of rest, when no birds sang and everything was silence. The vast weight of the night sky overhead.

Tamlin had been angry, down in the garden, but in that moment when they'd threatened _him, _he thought, what Tamlin had felt was fear. It was fear that had cut him free.

_I am Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, and you're just the bitch hurting my brothers._

He could hear Azriel's skin _ripping _as his wing began to separate from his back, Azriel's muffled shriek hanging in the air, Cas's desperate reassuring words a nearly monotonous murmur-

Rhys, with every ounce of mental strength he had, pushed against her control, and just as he felt his own mind warping under the weight of her stolen power, felt bloody tears at the corners of his eyes, the cage of her magic... broke.

Rhysand opened his eyes, slowly looking up at her where she stood. "No, I don't think so," he said softly, calmly. He had only a thread of his power, still, but a thread would be enough. She could barely use what she had. She was a child playing with fire, and fear, and pain.

Rhys understood fear. He knew pain.

He focused on her mind, that shriveled madwoman's husk, and Amarantha froze as Rhysand's absolute control over himself overwhelmed her clumsy, childish attempts to bludgeon him. Azriel's wing dropped from her hand.

"Let them go." Her eyes, wide and panicked, went to his even though her face was frozen. Azriel slumped against Cassian's shoulder, still gripped onto him. His left wing was a mess of broken bones and blood. It was still connected, though, that was all that mattered. It was still connected. Rhys had freed himself just in time.

He had so little power left, and this drew on the absolute dregs of it. But he didn't need much to do what he was about to do.

He walked towards her, where she still stood frozen. Cas, free of the unnatural pressure that had been holding him down, pulled the shadowsinger as close to him as he could, seemingly not even aware of what Rhys was doing. _In Cas's world_, Rhys thought, _there is only Azriel now._ "I've got you, it's okay, I'm here, Az, it's okay, I've got you, it's going to be okay, I love you," He whispered into the other man's short black hair.

Azriel still had himself buried against Cas, arms so tight around his neck that it probably hurt. "Cas, please don't leave me, don't leave me-"

"Never," Cas whispered back, fiercely. "Never."

Azriel's shadows clustered around them, running up and down both of them, winding around and through where they held each other.

Mor struggled to her feet, and looked towards Tamlin's body, staggering in that direction. She had an expression of absolute stubborn determination that Rhys knew very, very well. He imagined he had a similar expression on his own face.

"Rhysand-" Amarantha said through clenched teeth, but he could see the terror in her eyes, the absolute _fear of him, _and felt himself begin to smile.

"Shush," Rhys said quietly. "You're silent now. You'll never say my name again." He found Azriel's dagger where she had dropped it on the ground, picked it up, and walked slowly over to her. "Take the chestplate off your armor." Her hands moved without her, unbuckling the chestplate, letting it drop with a soft thump to the ground, leaving her in only her thin undershirt. He placed the point of the dagger just over her heart, the wound she had just healed. Let it linger there, the slightest pinprick from the point of the blade, the tiniest trickle of black blood staining her undershirt. He let her just stand for a moment or two knowing what was about to come, as he looked over her face for the last time.

"I have dreamed about this for fifty fucking years," He whispered. "You took _everything_ away. You took my freedom, my power, my family, my dignity, you wormed your way inside my head and my body and you took those too. You made me bring Tamlin to you, made me _chain him up just like you did to me._ You kept us like toys to break. You _wanted me to love him. _He was this one bright thing I had, just for me, in the dark - and then you took him away, too. You murdered my fucking mate._"_ He leaned in, their eyes only inches apart, relishing the terror in hers.

"Tamlin is the _last thing you will ever take from me._"

He grabbed her by the back of the neck to keep her still, _forced _the finely honed dagger into her skin, _pushed _until he felt the skin and bone giving way. He twisted and tore her chest open, keeping his eyes - and his smile - locked on her face, held perfectly still by power that, even stolen and used up, pulsed alongside his heart in a deep, dark well.

Her heart, exposed, beat frantically. Rhys dropped the knife, reached his hand in, twisting his fingers into the wound in her chest, letting her _feel _the agony of it, and ripped her heart straight out.

She dropped with an awkward suddenness to her knees and then the ground. He let her go, breathing hard, feeling the last pulse of the bloody muscle he still held in his hand before he let it drop to the ground with a thump. He looked down at her blood smeared from his fingertip to his forearm, brackish and corrupted, and snarled at it, cleaning it with a snap, disgusted. She looked disbelieving, as though she could not quite accept that after all of it, after everything, this would be how she died, in total indignity. She landed on her face, her red hair and the blood still flowing from her empty chest mingling on the ground.

In that moment, when her black heart finally stopped beating, a dam was broken open, and power poured out of her in an eruption that Rhys _felt _flow past him like the current of an immense river. Fire and ice, light and dark, healing and spell breaking and more. The power rushed back to the High Lords it rightly belonged to. In each of their courts, the High Lords were feeling it settle back under their skin, in their bones. Rhys felt his own, mostly emptied after his rampage through Velaris, settle back into him like a loved one coming home.

His skin was free. His soul was free. He was_ free._

Free, and alone. He felt his chest cave in with the sudden remembrance of the loss, and he stumbled to one side.

_Gone-_

"Rhys!" Mor was calling to him, kneeling next to Tamlin's body. "Rhys, get your ass over here! He's not dead!"

She knelt next to him, her hands pressed to his chest, pouring power into him as fast as she could, her eyes glazed over and far away, face pale as she went past her usual limit. Now that she'd said it Rhys realized he could still feel a heartbeat along the bond, the faintest thing, the last minutes of a losing fight.

Tamlin's chest rose and fell so slightly that you had to be right next to him to see it, as Rhys pulled desperately at silver cuffs that refused to even budge. His eyes were closed, and he seemed asleep except for the way red had soaked into every inch of his clothing.

_He'd had nightmares like this. Tamlin would die, and he would hear her start to laugh as she stood back up..._

"Tamlin- no-"

"He's not dead yet," Mor said, turning her fierce brown eyes on his. "He's not _dead, _Rhys. He's pulled into himself somehow, he's still alive. I can't… I'm healing as fast as I can, I need your help but _he's not dead_."

The bond was thin and nearly broken, but he could still feel Tamlin fighting the spikes inexorably tearing apart the thin skin, pushing into his throat, nearly meeting each other. He could feel Tamlin trying to breathe around the blood that was pouring into his lungs, filling them up. That he was so still, and so silent, because his body was trying to help heal itself, pulling together the smallest threads of power despite the cuffs trying to drain it.

Rhys had never been great at healing, either; his powers were darker than that. But he did what he could, his hands over Mor's. They could not heal him fast enough, not without taking those cuffs off. And the cuffs had no beginning and no end. They were perfect circles. All they were doing right now was prolonging Tamlin's pain.

Lucien barrelled out of the fading darkness, his sword still a glowing, gleaming obsidian black, his eyes open wide, both good and metal. Flames licked up his arms and circled his auburn hair in a halo. Soldiers stepped up to challenge him and Lucien simply cut them down with grim determination, his good eye flinty, metal eye slightly wider as always. He burned the soldiers alive, and when he saw Tamlin, his face paled and his good eye went wide.

"My wing-" Az said, clinging onto Cas, his eyes wide with something deeper than terror, face paler than ever. "My wing is gone-"

"Not gone," Cas said, soothingly, holding Az with one hand, the other going, slowly, to touch the broken wing. "Not gone, Az. It's still there. It's gonna be okay, Az, it's okay, I'm here."

"I can't move it- my wing- _hurts-_"

"Hold still. She dislocated it. We need to get it back into place before a healer can work on it. Ssssshhh, Az, I've got you. This is gonna hurt, okay?"

"I'm already holding on to you, it _already hurts,_" Azriel said, just as Cas tightened his arm around him to keep him still.

Rhys could just barely hear him murmur into Azriel's ear. "Remember when I found you on the mountain? Think about what the mountain looked like, Az, do you remember we spent that whole night in the cave while it snowed. I told you that old joke about the mortal man and the bottle of beer, how did it go? A human man walked into a fae bar and asked for a bottle of-" as he twisted the wing in his grip, forcing the joint back into place. Azriel, mouth closed and teeth ground together, still let out a final muffled scream into Cas's shoulder, fingernails clawing helplessly at his armor.

Cas pressed a kiss to the side of his head, something that seemed born from desperate relief, murmuring to him still, words that Rhys couldn't hear and didn't think were any of his business to know anyway. They sat there, together, breathing hard, black hair mingled until you couldn't tell one from the other. Rhys only looked at them for one long moment before Tamlin choked, turning his head, coughing blood onto the ground. Too much blood.

_Azriel spat a gob of blood into her face-_

"I can't- we have to get-"

"Tamlin!" Lucien, whose body was one huge burst of flame, skidded onto his knees next to them, grabbing at Tamlin's hand, holding it tightly. Lucien looked to the side, and saw for the first time Amarantha's corpse, facedown in the street. He saw Lucien recoil when he realized her heart was lying a few feet away. "She's dead?"

"She's dead," Rhys replied grimly, "And so is Tamlin." A crack split through the cobblestone streets.

Rhys felt a slap upside his head and blinked, looking up to meet Mor's absolutely furious eyes, hand still raised to slap him again. "Not _yet_ he's not!" Mor hissed. "Now is not the time for your dramatics, Rhys! Amren broke Cas's off before, she could do it again!"

"Mor, we can't heal him fast enough. We don't have time to wait for Amren!" Still, he called to her soundlessly, heard her answering presence somewhere nearby, engaged in her own fight. Felt her turning in their direction. "We can't get these things off of him soon enough, we can't keep healing forever-"

The god stood behind them suddenly, impassive, unmoved by the drama before her. The immortal thing wearing Feyre's body tilted her head slowly, taking in Tamlin's condition, one eyebrow slowly raising. "_This body loved that fae male. Or the idea of him. How much blood do you skinbound things even keep in you at once?_"

"See all the blood that's come out of him so far? About that much," Mor snapped. "If you're not going to be a _helpful_ vengeance god, you can go sit with Rhys in the whiny children's corner-"

"_Do you want vengeance?_" The god asked mildly, as though they were gathered around an interesting family of ducks and not a dying man. "_Ayla's Lover?"_

"I_ don't _want vengeance!" Lucien snarled. The fire that snapped and crackled around his hands and his head never seemed to touch Tamlin but even the god took a slight step back from him. "I never wanted _revenge. _I just wanted Tamlin saved, to be free! I woke you up to save him!"

"Hold on, Spring, just hold on," Rhys whispered, putting his hand against Tamlin's cheek as he coughed blood again. The bond was so, so thin between them. Such a small glint within his mind. The tiniest thread. "Damn it, you have to stay here with us."

_Cauldron save me…_

_Stop that, you're not going to die. Not today._

_Mother hold me. Guide me to you. M-mother... _

_Stop. I _order_ you to stop._ Rhys felt Tamlin's mind, fairly used by now to taking his commands, instinctively obey and go quiet. I_ did not spend so long hating you for you to disappear on me right when I remember why I liked you so fucking much._

"_I am not a god who saves. I cannot heal. You have your own gods for that._" There was a pause. "_But perhaps I should try._" The god drifted towards them, Feyre's face a mask of alien curiosity. "_Lucien Vanserra, Ayla's Lover, will you carry my Ayla forever?_"

"Not much of a choice on that," Lucien muttered, holding Tamlin's hand tightly. "The fucking sword decided to carry _me. _Yes," He said, a bit of affection in his voice as he looked down at the obsidian black blade, gradually bleeding back into its usual dull steel, lying next to him on the ground. Rhys could have sworn he heard a shimmer of sound come back from it, something gentle and loving. "I have my unsettlingly devoted murder-sword to the end. Although I won't make them bury me with it. Tam," His voice dropped into something softer, "I tried-" His voice caught.

"_Then carry my power,_" The god said quietly. "_There is a spell-breaker in you. So break the spell._"

Not-Feyre, the god of mortal vengeance, laid her hand on his shoulder, and Lucien began to glow. The light that flickered under his skin was a flame so hot it burned white, lining the edges of his skin and filling in until he glowed from head to toe. His auburn hair began to shift and move, as though he walked through water. His metal eye was a bright and shining sun in his face. Where he held Tamlin's hand, Tamlin began to glow, too.

Lucien closed his eyes. They could see the glowing metal eye through the thin skin of his eyelids, the ripple of power that ran up his arms, struggling to be bound into such frail, living skin. Rhys watched as Lucien, without opening his eyes, gently pushed he and Mor's hands off Tamlin's chest. He placed his own there, palm down, and light began to break where his fingers touched. He looked up at Rhys, both eyes glowing suns now, light within him, glowing out through his mouth when he opened it.

"Break the spell, Rhysand," Lucien said. "With me."

"I-"

"We both love him, for our own reasons. _Let love undo the final prayer. _It's the last part of the final riddle. Help me."

Rhys nodded slowly, laid one of his hands gently over Lucien's, and felt the internal light that Lucien carried, spell breaking in his blood. _How did that get there, I wonder - there's no spellbreaking in the Autumn Court... _

Along with that alien power that boosted and buoyed it, he felt Lucien's light twine up and around his own dark inward sky. He had a sense of a million stars becoming suddenly brilliant pinpoints, falling across the heavens, trails of light and fire.

The two of them poured their love into it, Lucien the friendship and loyalty and hope for something better that Tamlin had given back to him, Rhys the mate he'd found in a place he'd only ever expected to find anguish and hate and despair. Laughter, shared histories, pain and bloodshed and tragedy and trauma and still they had found each other again in the end.

The silver cuffs at Tamlin's wrist began to shine, brilliantly bright and fiery hot. Cracks appeared, and like a mirror dropped from a great height, the cuffs shattered into pure white glass. Tiny emeralds scattered through the street, shimmering green with the power they had stolen.

Mor reached over, touching Tamlin's still-bleeding wrists, healing the wounds with the dregs of her own power. Rhys heard Amren, somewhere, shouting curses in about fifteen different languages, cutting her own way through, Cas still murmuring reassuring nothings to Az.

_I love you, _Rhysand thought. _I think we belonged to each other from the start, Tamlin. Shame it took us so long to notice._

He heard Lucien's voice, ringing somewhere in the back of Tamlin's mind, laced and edged and echoed by the god's thousand mortal voices. _You gave me back my life once. Let me return the favor, and holy Mother you have no idea how much you owe me for this, don't think I won't collect on this debt._

The cuff around his neck splintered, cracked apart, and then became thousands of tiny grains of white glass sand that fell harmlessly to the ground alongside the emeralds, which flashed once as bright as tiny green suns and then went dull and dark. Mor put her hand there too, closing the wounds, and then fell back, sitting with her head in her hands, breathing in harsh gasps. Though she'd been able to heal the worst of it, angry red scars pockmarked a circle around his neck where Mor's power had simply run dry. But at least they weren't bleeding.

There was a beat of silence, while they stared down at him.

_Not today. Not today. Not today._

Tamlin's eyes flew open and he rolled suddenly onto his side and coughed again, coughed endlessly. This time Rhys _felt _his whole body wrack with it, before the High Lord of Spring pushed himself up to a sitting position and opened his eyes, wiping at his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse, harsh whisper. "Oh, thank the Cauldron, that hurt like_ hell._"

Rhys sat back, finally, laughing helplessly. "Damn _your_ eternal fucking self-sacrifice. Now I know how my entire family feels. I love you, you arrogant martyr _asshole_."

"Someone had to show you up," Tamlin said, voice still raspy. He reached out and Rhys went to him. They kissed, and Rhys had never felt relief like this, an ocean of it that nearly made him light-headed.

"Oh, for the love of the Cauldron, can't that _wait? _You were literally coughing blood thirty seconds ago," Lucien groaned, putting a hand up over his good eye. "Some of us have eaten within the past few days and would like to keep their food down."

"Seriously," Cas muttered. He seemed only then to realize he still had his mouth pressed to Azriel's hair, was still holding him tightly. Cas suddenly let go, pushing himself back, inadvertently pushing Az as well. Azriel hissed as the movement jostled his injured wing and his eyes opened slowly to watch him, an unreadable expression on his face. "Az, I-"

"I know," Azriel said quietly back.

"_I suppose it is nice, on occasion, to be a god of nice things,_" Not-Feyre said from behind them. "_A final boon, for the love this body feels for you._"

"Can you heal him?" Rhys asked, gesturing towards Azriel.

_"No. I am not a god who heals. That is not in my power. Do you want vengeance, Rhysand, High Lord of Night? The deaths I have wrought today have given me enough to help you, but I have far to travel and need more._"

Rhys looked up. The sky had cleared but Amarantha's creatures still flew up there, wreaking havoc, causing damage. There were still people locked up in the tunnels Under the Mountain, prisoners and dissidents. There were still Amarantha's agents and raiding parties all over Prythian.

"I just want this to end," Rhys said softly. "Now."

The god smiled. "_Vengeance is mine._"

The power that flooded him was not his own. It was not familiar. It was alien, mortal magic, magic that no longer existed here. It would only barely stay within the confines of his skin, he felt thin and transparent with the light that glowed, faintly, within his own darkness. He knew his eyes must be glowing, too, like Lucien's had. He was a star himself, shining in the dark. Light and heat of a magnitude that could not be measured. And the power was his to wield like a weapon or forgiveness, whichever he chose. Rhysand, an arm around Tamlin, looked around at the ruins of Velaris. He could end or forgive. He could simply let them go free if he wanted. The compassionate choice would have been to let them go free.

As one, Amarantha's flying army misted into nothing.

_Well... nobody's perfect..._

He looked at the soldiers, the Darkbringers still holding on, still fighting in the alleyways and in houses, trying to protect whoever had been unable to evacuate. Amarantha's soldiers, who fought in desperation now, but were still trying to kill his people nonetheless.

He looked around at his city, and one by one, every single one of Amarantha's true loyalists died. They dropped, misted, burst, were shredded apart from the inside out. One by one they fell, until nothing remained. Baffled Darkbringers began to put away their weapons as the press-ganged troops, untouched by the mortal god, began to surrender in droves to anyone who would listen.

There was a glimpse of Mor's little brother, the only member of her family who had stayed behind to stand by Rhys rather than betray him, sliding a scored and scratched helmet off and staring around him, taking in the sight of the ruined city for the first time in peace.

Elsewhere, throughout every court in Prythian, Amarantha's loyal agents died. Whether they were openly known agents or spies, they fell where they stood, they fell in groups or alone. They fell Under the Mountain, leaving the servants and those guards who had not served willingly to finally run for the outside, to come piling out of the tunnels in a blind, joyous panic.

Nuala and Cerridwen, hiding in Rhys's townhouse, felt the undoing of the net that had held Prythian in thrall for a half-century and they held each other and laughed until they cried.

Under the Mountain, the Hybernian court died, and they did not die well. The prison cells clanked open, prisoners finding their hesitant way out, worried it was some sort of trick. Chains unlocked. The doors to the deeper tunnels, where the dissidents were held, opened. Lesser and High fae together realized, all at once, that they were free to go. Illyrians began to pour out, the warriors holding onto their wives and children tightly. They would make their way up the tunnels and blink as they stepped back out into the air. Some came out in Winter, some in Summer, some in Day or Dawn or Spring. They came out of every possible entrance to Under the Mountain, and they were free.

He saw only one creature remain; deep within the tunnels, a silversmith worked. When everyone else ran, the silversmith, carefully setting gemstones into a crown next to a well-lit forge, did not. He was not Amarantha's, he was no loyalist - but he did not want freedom, either. The silversmith, a lesser fae seemingly crafted of silver-scaled skin himself, only looked up, briefly, from his work. He and Rhys met eyes. Rhys's violet, for one moment, felt met by the silversmith's, though they were thousands of miles apart. Then the silversmith looked back down to his work, as though it did not matter that the person who had commissioned the work, the only one in Prythian who would actually want a crown like that, was dead.

Rhys did not kill him. He killed no one who was not truly loyal to Amarantha. Later, he would wish he had.

The power left him, all at once, that terrible and alien mortal magic. He sat back, letting out a breath, feeling it not as a loss but as a gift, to no longer feel it trying to fit underneath his fae skin.

Tamlin sat back, too, looking up into Rhys's face, putting his hands on either side of it, staring into his eyes. "I can't believe my stupid idea worked," He said in a whisper.

"Wait, you're having second thoughts _after_ she's dead?" Rhys laughed, weak but sincere laughter.

"_Your boon has been granted._" The mortal god began to walk away, headed due east.

"Wait!" Lucien held out a hand. "Where are you going?"

"_My people live far away now, but some still remain,_" The god said thoughtfully. She looked back at them, and there was a hint of Feyre's fire and stubbornness in her, after all. "_There is a great wide land, far from here, and in the center of it the last of my people have hidden themselves. I will go find them. I would like to be worshipped again. It is best for your kind if I do not linger here and remember what you did to me._"

Amren found her way over to them, her outfit splattered with enemy blood, shifting silver eyes bright and curious. "Hello, cousin," She said with absolute casualness to the mortal god as it walked past her.

The god paused, and turned to look at her. "_I thought I felt one of your kind around here,_" It said, smiling. "_Do they know what you are?_"

"No. Let's keep it that way."

"_Fair enough. Do you want to come with me? Living as these fae... it's a fall from grace, so to speak, isn't it? I could use a messenger to herald my return. You would be worshipped as a god, too._"

"Amren doesn't need a bigger ego than the one she already has," Mor snorted.

Amren smirked, looking sidelong at Rhys, Cas, Az, and Mor. Then she looked back at the mortal god. "I'm good here, thank you. I'd hate to leave my family. Even if they're incredibly annoying and don't appreciate me."

"_I'll hear you if you change your mind,_" The god replied. It took Amren's hands in its own, for just a moment, and its blank white eyes met Amren's shifting silver. After three beats of silence in which they shared a universe of information between them, the god walked away and left them, headed due east, straight for the mountains.

"Was it a good idea to let her loose on the world?" Mor asked when the god had disappeared around a corner, her voice breathy and high.

_Home. My family. Home._

_Home, _Tamlin echoed, a little plaintively.

"Sounds like the continent's problem, not ours," Lucien said with a shrug. "Maybe she just won't tell anyone who woke her up and they'll never know?" He glanced down, at his sword which looked like any other sword again, and smirked. "So that was your mother, huh?"

Whatever the sword said back, Rhys did not hear it any longer. Lucien laughed.

Cas pushed himself to his feet and stepped away, walking a few feet down the street, staring towards the sea. He slowly wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, muttered something none of them could hear. Azriel looked after him, still kneeling. His shadows twisted up one arm, broken wing dragging the ground. After a few seconds of his eyes on Cassian's back with that same blank unreadable expression, Azriel looked away and began, with agonizing difficulty and a face that had gone white with pain, to push himself to his feet. "Cas, I-"

"Later, Az," Cas said, softly without looking back. "Please."

Amren stared down at them, slowly looked over at Amarantha's corpse, and then looked back. "So I was busy saving Velaris while you lot fucked around. What'd I miss?"


	46. Chapter 46

_**Six months later, Winter Solstice.**_

There was a knock on the door, and Tamlin jolted awake, sitting up too quickly and banging his head into a desk chair nearby. "Damn it," He muttered, rubbing at his head. "Why is that chair _always _there?"

"Tamlin, are you asleep in there?" Lucien's voice called. "_Again_?"

Tamlin hesitated. "... no."

Tamlin had been sleeping in his study.

He'd put a pile of blankets and pillows in the corner, behind the huge wooden desk his father had insisted on having built right in the room. It could never be removed without taking it all the way apart, which was something Tamlin assumed he had done on purpose just to be a bastard to whoever took over after him.

He was sleeping in his study because he couldn't sleep in his bedroom.

When he tried, he woke up convinced he was back Under the Mountain. He had nightmares about being chained back to her bed, the nights that she would have Rhys toy with him until he was nearly crying from need. He heard Amarantha's voice like poison, telling them what to do. Remembered how it had felt, the times that both of them took him in that bed, with all its plush softness, how it felt to be between them.

On darker nights, he had nightmares about Amarantha alone.

He would wake up to find himself twisted up his sheets, tearing at them with his claws. Once he'd discovered he'd covered his entire room with vines that grew around him, closing him off. Sometimes he would hear a voice telling him to wake up, feel the hint of a hand on his face.

Rhys never asked. Tamlin knew he had to feel it, along their bond. Tamlin felt the same kinds of nightmares coming from his mate, woke him up when he could... but Tamlin had asked him to be silent and leave him be, and he was.

He hadn't exactly_ rejected_ the mating bond, and he didn't want to. But after they had cleaned up at Rhys's townhouse, which had miraculously only taken minor damage (_Even destroying his own city, he's too bloody vain to so much as knock off a shingle, _Cas had said with baffled wonderment), Tamlin had started to feel… almost light-headed. Like he was here and not here. Like all of this was the dream, and he would wake up at any moment in Amarantha's bed.

Speaking with Rhys's family, he had started to feel like he could still smell the air Under the Mountain, that the walls were slowly closing in. Everyone was wary of him, and worried, and for good reason. Everyone knew something like this was never supposed to happen..

None of this was his life. None of it was the life he had intended to be living. So he asked Rhys to leave him alone. Not forever, just for a while - give him some time to go and help with the Spring Court's recovery. Just to see if he even could still be the High Lord of Spring.

Standing by the doorway, he'd asked Rhys, as softly as he could, not to visit or to speak with him. To let him be, let him find out what version of him still existed. The scarred, skinnier, pale man who came back from Under the Mountain was not the Spring Lord who had originally gone, no matter that the earth responded to his touch once again. No matter that the trees were in bloom when he returned and even his rose bushes were showing tiny new buds of color.

He'd sent gold, the savings his father had kept locked zealously in secret coffers and that Tamlin hadn't even known existed until he had taken on the mantle of High Lord, up to Velaris in regular shipments to help with rebuilding the destroyed city, sent shipments of food to help feed the refugees still staying in hastily-constructed homes. He'd spent freely from his coffers to house and feed and clothe his own people as they returned and rebuilt lives damaged by Amarantha's tyranny. They said he was changed by his time with Amarantha, that he was a different man. Lucien kept insisting he was a better one.

But he did not go back to Rhys. He just… needed time.

It wasn't working. He could feel himself trying to hem Lucien in, even, keep him from going too far afield, worried if he did his friend would not return. His own rides out into the forest mangled his nerves, although he kept going anyway. He'd tried the other day to forbid Lucien from going out himself. Luckily Lucien fought back, pushed back at him, insisted he not hide behind tempers and worry and face that the wound was his, not anyone else's, to heal.

There was some part of his temper that wanted to flare, to destroy things the way he used to, but Tamlin, for maybe the first time, controlled it. He thought of Amarantha's rage and the way she destroyed everything that made her angry and vowed to himself that he would stop doing the same. Holding all his anger in, though, wasn't any more healing than losing his temper had been before.

Rhys hadn't argued with him in those last few moments by the door. He'd only listened to Tamlin's explanation and request, given him a long, slow kiss that everyone else pretended not to notice, slid his arms around him, and told him that he would be waiting when Tamlin was ready.

_Don't take too long, Spring. We've wasted so much time already._

They'd agreed to wait until Solstice.

Which, as Tamlin came fully awake on the floor of his study, he realized was today. And also that it was nearly evening, and the sun had already made its way below the horizon, the longest night of their eternal spring had already begun. Everyone would be outside celebrating. Drinking and carousing, finding dark corners to have private moments. Having a joyful, happy time, their first Winter Solstice in freedom in more than half a century.

He should be out there celebrating, too. After all, he was free, wasn't he? Tamlin considered it. Then he said, "Go away," and pulled the covers up over his head.

Lucien jiggled the door handle. "Did you _lock me out_? Come on, you know by now that locks don't work on me here." There was a pause, the sound of a keyring jingling, and Lucien simply unlocked the door and walked in. "You_ gave me the keys_, Tamlin." The blanket was yanked off of Tamlin, Lucien looking down at him. "And you're sleeping in your study again." He was wearing a simple white shirt and brown pants with his riding boots, his hair darkened a little now that he wasn't spending all his time on horseback in other courts. "Celebrations are already underway. Do you intend to get up and join… _any_ of them?"

"I hadn't, no." Tamlin slowly stood up, dusting off the sleeping pants he'd been wearing since sometime yesterday, running a hand through his hair. He'd let it get a little shaggier, but had kept it short, something he knew bothered Lucien - a choice he couldn't seem to make himself explain. "I just-"

"-couldn't sleep," Lucien finished for him. "I know. You never do, anymore. I saw you prowling the grounds last night. You really need to stop doing that. Look, I'll keep going as Regent tonight and oversee it. You don't need to do anything."

"No, you're right, it's my court, I need to-"

"It's _fine_," Lucien said firmly. "Pretending everything is normal is _killing you, _and it's turning you into someone you're not. Besides, I have something for you."

"You… do?" Tamlin stretched his arms over his head, his back sore from the hard wooden floor that the blankets couldn't disguise. He wasn't wearing his shirt and wasn't entirely sure where he'd left it. Had he even worn one yesterday? He'd spent the whole day, other than taking a run through the woods as the beast for a while, catching up on paperwork in the study… so maybe not. The scars trailed and traced their endless spirals and whorls down his left arm and chest, making their way all the way down to his stomach, even dipping below his pants, ending somewhere around his hipbones, hidden by the cloth. They hadn't faded, and he didn't bother to glamour them away.

He hadn't glamoured the scars of the flogging on his back or the ones on his neck, either. His people didn't mind - they saw it as a sign of strength that he had survived it. It wasn't like he ever looked in a mirror any longer. He'd had Lucien take them down or cover them all with cloth.

"Yes. Came today." Lucien was holding a box, Tamlin realized, looking down at it as Lucien set it gently onto the desk. "Tamlin, we're going to talk about you taking back up your High Lord duties more regularly-"

"I know, I know, I just-"

Lucien cleared his throat, interrupting him. "I don't mind being your Second, your Regent," He said, softly. "I will do it for as long as you need me, you know that. I'm not going anywhere, Tamlin. And no one is going to take me away, either. Although I do need your leave to go visit a place in the Day Court, soon. But… you're not getting any better here by yourself. I think you can't be High Lord with only some of your mind on it, and the rest split between missing Rhys and the dark."

"I thought you didn't want me with Rhys, anyway," Tamlin mumbled.

"I didn't. But whether I like it or not, you're a complete mess without him. So open the box."

It was a heavy box, made from maple, with ornate carvings all around it. He found himself smiling, when he looked it over, slowly undoing the small golden latch on the outside. "Who made this?" The carvings were roses. Roses of every conceivable style had been carved into every inch of the surface of the box. On the top, in the center of an array of roses and thorns, was a carving of the beast Tamlin could shift into, on all fours, snarling.

Lucien shrugged. "Nice, right? I thought so."

Tamlin opened the box, and could not stop the delighted smile that found its way onto his face.

It was a brand new leatherbound copy of a book on limericks. Tamlin closed his eyes, briefly. "Is this from you, Lucien?"

"Nope. Look underneath." Lucien leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching.

There was a second book nestled into the box underneath the first. He picked it up, looking at it, his heart starting to race. "Rhys…?"

It was his mother's favorite book, the story about the woman who falls in love with the pirate king. The book with the character Tamlin was named after. "How did he find this? Even my mother couldn't find a new copy when her old one got worn..."

"Open it," Lucien said, encouragingly.

Inside the cover, there was a small folded piece on paper. On the blank first page, Rhys had written, _I bought you this because I want you to do all the voices._

He opened up the bit of folded paper._ Now go to your bedroom and open the new door._

Tamlin raised his head, looking at Lucien. "What's that mean?"

Lucien stepped back, gesturing towards the door, his smile only brightening with mischief. "I suggest you go find out."

The servants were probably already outside to celebrate - he could hear tinny strains of music coming in through some of the open windows. He and Lucien appeared to be alone as they walked the length of Rosehall to the wing with the bedrooms. Lucien walked easily beside him, one hand eternally on the hilt of that sword he never took off.

"I meant to ask you," Tamlin said, trying to make his voice sound casual. "Does the sword really turn into a woman? I heard Azriel say-"

"A gentleman never tells," Lucien said cooly, a bit of light glinting off his metal eye. His fingers tightened, just slightly, on the hilt.

As he walked, he felt the breeze coming in through the windows, his land spread far and wide. If he concentrated, he could even feel the Wall, the massive weight and wrongness that bordered the southern edge of Spring. Beyond there, he thought, mortals were struggling through the harsher, longer days of winter. Here, things stayed mild, if with a bit of a bite to the air. He could feel every single tree, every bush, each pond or weeping willow. He could feel the people, lesser and High Fae, dancing and singing and celebrating. The land was his, and it was renewing itself, healing the wounds and the scars Amarantha had left behind.

Tamlin just wasn't sure _he _deserved to heal.

He slowly opened the door to his bedroom, the air stale with lack of use, the curtains heavily drawn. The room was dark and he frowned, his heart racing with nervousness, jumping slightly as he thought he saw that starlight veil pulled down around the corners of the bed-

_Not her bed. Not her walls. Not her bookshelves. All of this is yours. Safe here. Safe. She's dead._

There was indeed a door he had never seen before, just to the right of his bed. He blinked, pulling up faelights to get a better look. The door was painted a plain white, like every other door inside the room, but it had tiny black stars painted around the top of the arch. "Lucien, what is this?"

"Open it up," Lucien said cheerfully. "Listen, Tam - I have my own feelings about your mate, but..." He clapped Tamlin on the right shoulder, and shrugged. "He's starting to grow on me." He stepped back, closed the door, and Tamlin was alone.

He took a deep breath. He'd told Rhys six months, and today was the end of it. But… what had Rhys built inside his house while he was busy hiding in his study and the library? Busy trying to look at himself in the mirror and failing, over and over again, to hold contact with his own gaze? While he'd been prowling the grounds at night, in his beast form, eternally watching for an invasion that wasn't coming? While he was avoiding what had been done to him, and what he had been forced to do?

He walked slowly over the door, turned the knob, and opened it to look in.

Inside, Rhys's bedroom, in his townhouse in Velaris. Rhys himself was sitting in a chair at a small table, looking effortlessly and devastatingly handsome. He had regained the color he'd lost while Under the Mountain. His face turned to the book in a way that made the line of his jaw stand out in the slightly dimmed light, a bit of black hair falling over his eyes. Tamlin could see stars in the already-dark sky outside the window.

Tamlin looked at him, just looked, for a long, silent moment, breath caught in his throat.

_What are you thinking? _Came the sultry voice along the mating bond. Those violet eyes flicked to his, above that occasionally maddening smile.

"I'm wondering how long you've been sitting in that posture waiting for me to _discover_ you, and if it hurt your neck to tilt it that far to the right and hold it there the whole time," Tamlin replied out loud. He stepped further in, and closed the door behind him. "And also why you didn't have Lucien at least tell me to get dressed before I came to see you, since you look like… that, and I look like…" He gestured down to his lack of shirt and sleeping pants. "... this."

Rhys laughed, but didn't move from his chair.

"Well, for starters, I only look like_ this_-" He gestured to his impeccably tailored black shirt and pants, eyebrow raised, "Because I just came from a meeting with the new Steward. Mor's little brother is infinitely better than any other member of her family and he'll be running the Court of Nightmares for me. No, it _didn't_ hurt my neck, since I told Lucien to let Nuala know when he was going to bring you the box. It's only been maybe twenty minutes, and I've tried out at least five different ways of sitting to find the one that I liked best. And secondly… or thirdly, I'm not sure which… you know I don't give a damn how you look. You forget how long we've known each other. I've seen you in far less than that." He waited a beat, then added, "And I hope to again very soon."

What he could feel of Rhys's mind was a mix of conflicting emotions, happiness and worry and anger, too, and Tamlin found it hard not to get swept away in it, felt his own answering affection. He felt steadier on his feet as he went further in, just a few more steps. The two men looked at each other, only about ten feet apart, for a long, long moment of comfortable silence.

"I made a mistake," Tamlin said finally. "I'm not getting better."

Rhys raised an eyebrow, and his face stayed calm and collected. But Tamlin could see the worry, there, in his eyes, feel it filter into the bond. "Do you mean you want to take more time?"

"No," Tamlin shook his head. "No. The time didn't help. It might have made me worse, actually. I thought I was facing it, but… I think I was just avoiding it a different way. I think if I keep this up... I don't know who I'm turning into. I might be broken."

Rhys sat back in his chair, only watching him. "We're both bent," He admitted. "Since I think I am, too. I don't think anyone comes out of her bed without damage."

"I thought being by myself would be what I needed, but… it's only made me more afraid of something else happening, something else going wrong. Made me start fights with Lucien for no reason. I can't sleep, I... I think I need to... talk about it."

"You should have been talking the whole time," Rhys pointed out. "You're not the only person who could have used someone to talk to. It's not like we have anyone else who lived through it."

He hadn't thought of that, had he? It hadn't even occurred to him... "I tried, sometimes, in dreams-"

"Tamlin," Rhys said softly. "Let me say this. When you asked, I let you go, and that was fine. I understood what you were trying to do. But it is not exactly fair to go through a thing together, and then you run away and hide from it while leaving me to pick things up myself."

"I... know."

"Do you, Spring? Do you actually know that?" Rhys laughed to himself, a little bitterly. "Between you and Cas, I'm trying to help everyone, but I think Amren is right. All this throwing myself into fires was just my own way to hide. I'm done with that. It's never done me any good and the last fifty years of my life are decent proof it's actually done the opposite."

"I'm... huh." Tamlin swallowed against the lump in his throat, staring into a corner. The words were hard to get out - he'd never been good at this. "I'm... I'm sorry. What I did was unfair."

"Yes," Rhys said evenly. "It was."

"I think I thought it would just... go away, if you weren't in my head anymore."

"Did it?"

"No."

"Did you want it to?" There was a tendril of hurt, along the bond, and Tamlin gritted his teeth.

"Are you asking what I told myself, or what I really wanted?"

Rhys smiled, just slightly. "Yes."

"I never wanted you out of my head. Rhys, you were the best thing _in _my head, when we were friends. You're still the best thing in my head."

Rhys's laugh this time was more sincere. "I'm the best thing in _everyone's_ head."

Tamlin rolled his eyes. "Try not to trip over your own ego, High Lord. I have never wanted to throw something at you more in my life."

"Try me. I have_ great_ reflexes. The other High Lords have wanted to thank us both in person, you know. For being the ones to take her out. Heroic enough for a storybook, I'd say," Rhys said with a smile, an attempt to cheer him up.

Tamlin looked away. "I don't want them to thank me. I just want to go back to being who I used to be again."

"You know that can't happen. For one, you were a massive asshole before and I'll be damned if we go back to_ that_ version of Tamlin. Trying to live up to what your father was turned you into the same kind of abusive piece of shit." Tamlin opened his mouth to reply, feeling a surge of defensive anger, and Rhys just raised one eyebrow. "You going to deny that your father was shit? I would genuinely enjoy seeing you, of all people, try to make that argument."

"Yours wasn't much better," Tamlin muttered, but Rhys had him there.

"I'll grant you that. And Lucien might not know, but I _remember _the way your father treated you. I remember his temper."

Tamlin looked away. "I'm not like that anymore. I'm working on it."

"I know. Your example wasn't exactly great. High Lords don't have a stellar track record on fatherhood in Prythian, and some of us have been around long enough to notice the similarities. I know you're not the same person any longer. You're not the only one. I'm... not who I was when I went Under the Mountain, either."

"How are you different?"

Rhys just smirked, looking over towards the window, at the stars. "For one, I am _also_ much less of a massive asshole. Mor has asked me repeatedly if I am sick because I am, and I quote, 'too damn nice now'. I jump at sounds I hear at night." He began to tick things off on his fingers, one by one. "No one is allowed to close any of the windows. I'm using magic to warm the house or no one would even stay here with me. A female tried to approach me in a bar, and she had red hair... I had to leave or I might have hurt her. She just looked so much the same. Even though later I realized she didn't look like _her_ at all."

Rhys took a deep breath in through his mouth and let it out his nose.

"This bed is new, because I had a nightmare three weeks ago and cracked the old one in half. I have nightmares almost every night. It's... hard, to sit in Hewn City and pretend to be the person they think I am. I spend half my days trying to lose myself in how absurdly grateful I am that I ever got to be with them again and the other half convinced that one of them is going to look in my head and see what's in there - see the things I _did _\- and that they'll... walk away."

"They wouldn't," Tamlin said, softly. "Those people love you. Your cousin, Mor, loves you. I'm pretty sure the ones with wings-"

"Cassian and Azriel, Tam, they have _names."_

"Right. I'm pretty sure those two hate me, but they _love_ you. They waited for a half-century for you."

"The High Lord they were waiting for is not the one that came back to them, Tam," Rhys said, his tone thoughtful, but even. "Even someone with my ego has to wonder if the mess I've made of myself is one they truly want anything to do with."

"Rhys... they want you here. You know, we lost... a lot. With what happened with our families. But you built this whole group of people you have to go back to, you built a family. They want you. Trust me."

Rhys was quiet for a while, but Tamlin could see the smile glimmering on his face. "You know... Cas was only down there for about six months and she never really touched him, just got into his head for a while, and he still struggles, too."

"He does?"

"Yes. Don't tell him I told you. He sleeps on the roof because if he sleeps inside, he wakes up thinking he's back in that prison cell. When he _does_ sleep inside because it's too cold, he drinks until he blacks out, half the time he wakes up punching something. He hasn't spoken to Azriel for more than thirty seconds for six months. Those two are inseparable and he won't even_ talk_ to him now. If Az walks into a room, Cas leaves it. I haven't figured out how to fix it and Amren told me to leave it well enough alone and let them fix themselves. What we went through... We can't heal it by hiding from it, none of us. Tamlin... what do you want to do?"

"I wanted to see you," Tamlin said, softly. "You're the only thing I want to see. I think being with you is how I heal. Talking to you. Being here."

"I didn't mean whether or not you wanted to go through that door." For the first time, Tamlin could see the way Rhys was holding himself back, keeping himself sitting in that chair, his arms tensed and ready to push himself standing. "You know better than anyone else what's inside my head. Do you want to come _here_? To me?"

"I do," Tamlin said, his voice slightly strained and faded. "I missed you. I shouldn't have spent the past six months avoiding that fact. I am-..." He paused, then forced the word out, even as his entire body tried to stop him. "I'm sorry, even if I'm terrible at saying so. Every day I think about you, every night I think about you. Lucien actually made a "no Rhys at mealtimes" rule and it has been surprisingly difficult to stick to."

"I have driven my family totally mad," Rhys said, quietly. "Mor has been bothering me for weeks to just go to you early, so I would at least get out of her hair. Amren threatened to lock me in the Prison until I _could calm __down a little. _Cas and Az think I've totally taken leave of my senses."

Tamlin blinked. "I-"

"Which I _have_, by the way," Rhys continued, pushing himself up. "I _have_ taken leave of my senses, because they are all - and I mean _all of them_ \- focused every day on what you are doing, wherever you are, without me. It's been hell not talking to you down the bond, when I could feel you pacing your fucking rose bushes in the middle of the night. Having nightmares that I can see, but I can't fix. You asked me not to help you, not to touch you or comfort you."

"I know. I feel your nightmares, too. I try to wake you up when I can-"

"I know."

"I don't want you to keep back anymore," Tamlin said softly. "I want you back in my head. All the time."

"Are you sure? This is your choice, Spring. This is always, _always _going to be your choice. I know this isn't exactly how it_ traditionally_ goes. I am not pressuring you. It's all your decision."

He took a deep breath, trying to find the words. "I don't give a fuck about tradition and how it's _supposed to be_ or what I thought I would be any longer. I _do_ know what's in your head, Rhys - and I want _you_." He frowned down at the floor, rubbing at the shadow of stubble on his chin. "As long as you still want me, knowing what's in mine."

Rhys stared at him for a moment, a look of total intensity in his wide-eyed expression, before he crossed the room in a few strides and caught him in a kiss with six months of desire and longing and love within it, his hands on Tamlin's face.

Tamlin's body lit up with nerve endings, and when Rhys gently opened his mouth, Tamlin met Rhys's tongue with his own, his hands going to unbutton Rhys's shirt, sliding it off his shoulders to fall in a pile of discarded silk on the floor. The two of them began to stumble towards Rhys's bed, still kissing, neither of them wanting to pull away. Eyes closed, they knocked into the table, sending the chair clattering onto its side, the two men laughing as they finally managed the last few steps and Tamlin pushed Rhys onto his back on his bed.

"Been here thirty-five seconds and already I've made a mess," Tamlin said, in a low voice.

"I think you could make a bigger mess than a table out of place and a chair knocked over," Rhys said reasonably. "For instance, I'm still wearing my pants, when they should clearly already be on the floor."

"I'm still wearing mine," Tamlin countered, in what he had hoped would be a perfectly calm voice, but which came out instead ragged and breathy. "And I would suggest that's a personal failing on your part."

"Cauldron, High Lord is that a _comeback?_ I've taught you well," Rhys said with a wicked smile. "But it's hard to help you out with that if I'm lying on my back." His hands were already moving to undo the button and laces on Tamlin's pants, sliding them down his hips. Tamlin was smiling as he helped Rhys to get them the rest of the way off, then took the other man's pants off himself, taking a deep breath in.

"You look so… tan," Tamlin said quietly, letting his eyes - and his hands- roam over his skin, pushing Rhys back onto his back, leaning over him.

Rhys shifted under his touch, closing his eyes. "Thank you for that strangely specific observation," He said drily.

"I just mean… being outside suits you." Tamlin pressed a kiss to his stomach and felt Rhys's muscles shift under him. "At least I didn't tell you you look _clean_ as a compliment. I've done that before."

"Ha. You look better, too." Rhys took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, his eyes closed. Tamlin kissed along the bone of his hip, bit just slightly down, dragged teeth along his skin. "You've clearly been outside."

"Yeah. Every day. Lucien makes me." He licked that flat spot on Rhys's pelvis, just below his abdomen but above his growing arousal. Rhys tangled his fingers into Tamlin's hair, trying to angle his head just a little bit further down.

"I appreciate every _inch_ of his hard work," Rhys groaned, "As you can probably tell. The tan makes your scars stand out, did you know that?"

Tamlin hesitated, then pulled back and away, standing up. He could feel every single bump she'd carved into his skin. "I know. I don't like mirrors now. They're mostly covered over."

"Tam... I didn't mean it like that." Rhys sat up, reaching out, taking Tamlin's hands in his. "I didn't mean to bring that up. I'm sorry. Seeing them stand out like that…" He pulled Tamlin to him, sitting on the edge of the bed with Tamlin standing between his legs. "It just reminds me of this noise you make that I like."

"Which one?" Tamlin asked. His voice was softer than he meant it to be. "You've had me make so many."

Rhys brought Tamlin's hand to his mouth, kissing the center of his palm, then trailed his tongue down until he kissed the spot just inside his wrist, where one of the scars settled over his pulse. He flicked his tongue out, a warm pressure that made Tamlin's knees go weak.

"Nnnngh," he groaned and fell forward. "Ah." Rhys slid his arm around behind his back.

"That one," Rhys whispered. "That's the noise." He grinned and pulled Tamlin hard against him, pushing himself further back until they were fully back on the bed. He flipped Tamlin onto his back and crouched over him, looking down, letting his eyes burn into that muscled body.

"How long d-do you think we can make this last?" Tamlin asked. Rhys drew his fingers along his ribs and he arched his back into the touch, as Rhys traced the scars with the slightest scrape of his fingernails. Rhys lowered himself, gently, until they were pressed together on every inch of skin possible. Tamlin moaned again, just a little bit, his hips pushing against Rhys's, the pressure a pleasure that had them both catch their breath.

"The first time?" Rhys smirked. "It's been a while, so maybe not _that _long. But it's not even sundown yet, and night is going to last a _very long time_ on Solstice."

"No, I m-meant before we have to try and explain this to the other High Lords-"

"I know what you meant. As long as we want. I don't care what any of them think."

_I love you, Nightmare._

_Say it out loud, Spring._

Tamlin laughed, a breathy sound, and slid his hand into Rhys's hair, kissing him. His other hand drew its way down feeling over his chest, his ribs, down the flat planes of Rhys's stomach, until it took hold of his cock, his fingers curving around it. "I know you as well as I know myself by now," He murmured, as Rhys pressed his own hips into it, letting his head gently drop onto Tamlin's shoulder.

"I love you," Tamlin whispered into his ear. "Thank you for knocking sense into me."

"I love _you_," Rhys said, a little shaky. "Tell me something about you that I don't know yet."

Tamlin took in a shaky breath, his free hand sliding back over Rhys's shoulder blades, down his sides, over his hips. The other hand continued to move, gently, as Rhys pushed himself slowly into it. After a moment, dark wings rose above them, and Tamlin let his fingertips trail those too, luxuriating in the way Rhys's whole body shook at the touch, the way the other man bit his lower lip.

"When I first met you, at that party. At Day Court. Remember?"

"I remember," Rhys murmured, closing his eyes as Tamlin's thumb traced circles around the thin membranes of skin.

"I didn't flirt with your sister at all."

"That I knew," Rhys smirked, shivering again. "Or you'd be dead. My sister was dangerous."

"She didn't make me drink that wine, either. The bet I lost was something else. The wine was actually for courage."

Rhys opened his eyes, faintly glowing violet focused onto Tamlin's answering green. "What?"

"I asked her if you were with anyone, or promised to anyone. I thought I was being smooth, that she would think I was just curious, or asking for my cousins or my friend Ianthe-" Rhys winced, thinking of his own unpleasant memories of the priestess. He'd have to tell Tamlin the truth about her... "… but she _knew_. She already knew. I have no idea how, I'd never told _anyone_, but... By the time I came over to talk to you, I already knew about the party. Your sister was the one who told me. She bet me I couldn't get an invite and tell you I was interested in _you_. She said you liked both, too, but wouldn't admit it because of the Illyrian thing."

"My _sister _said that?" He'd sure as hell never said anything like that to her. He wouldn't have dared, would have been too worried it would get back to the Illyrians, back when he gave a damn what they thought about his behavior. He thought of his sister's analytical, piercing dark eyes, a purple that was nearly black, how she'd kept her thick black hair caught in a clasp at the back of her neck all the time just to get it out of the way. No, his sister had never suffered fools lightly, although her friendship with Tamlin had given away her weakness for them. He thought of the way she watched everyone in the room all the time. Of_ course_ she'd have known without being told.

If his sister had still been alive he'd have been tempted to abdicate and make her High _Lady, _she'd probably have been better at it than him.

"I only lost half the bet. I never could get the nerve to tell you… but I still got invited to the party. And you agreed to go on that hunting trip that she came up with, too."

"What did you have to do for losing? That week we spent in the woods was_ her_ idea?"

Tamlin looked away, up at the ceiling, and smiled. "Ha. I had to dance with her. She did mock me _relentlessly _when nothing happened on the trip, she thought if the two of us were just alone long enough... But nothing happened and by the end of it we were friends. I told her I'd rather be your friend than risk not getting to be by trying anything else."

Rhys laughed. "She always liked you. She was always trying to push me your direction." He looked back towards the door, and grinned wickedly back down at Tamlin. "Cas is about to pass right by the door and I want to try something. Hold on a second." He slid his hand over Tamlin's hip, leaned down to kiss along his collarbone, down his chest and over his stomach, further to the flat plane of his abdomen and the first brush of soft golden hair.

"Hold onto what?" Tamlin asked, hardly even able to focus on his words. Rhys took Tamlin into his mouth all at once, the slightest graze of teeth, tongue moving in a way that was entirely too expert, and Tamlin threw his head back into the mattress, his hips bucking up, and groaned, "Cauldron be _damned!_" in a _much _louder voice than he intended.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" they heard, muffled, on the other side of the door, then the sound of someone running down the stairs at full speed. Rhys pulled back, looking gleefully proud of himself. "Worth it," He said brightly.

"Who… who said you could stop?" Tamlin breathed out.

"You giving commands?"

"Only if you're taking them," Tamlin breathed out. "Do that again."

"Yes, _sir, _High Lord."

"How many times do I have to tell you to _shut up with that_-" Rhys took Tamlin back into his mouth, and Tamlin felt his hips move in response, a sharp, warm pleasure suffuse every inch of his skin. Tamlin let his eyes drift up to the ceiling. No mirrored glass, here - just wanting, and Rhys's mouth, this moment.

He let his hands lose themselves in Rhys's hair, let his body be lost in Rhys's mouth and his mind stretch and twist along their mating bond, and felt some broken part of him pulling itself slowly back together.

* * *

Cas hurried down the stairs, teeth gritted, feeling his face burn, hoping he could get out unnoticed. "At _least_ be considerate," He muttered to himself, as he headed for the door. "Although maybe it's my fault for staying in someone else's house. He could at least talk to us about it."

"Not sure you're one to judge," Azriel said quietly from the doorway to the living room, leaning on the frame with his arms crossed. He was wearing a loose white shirt and black pants, heavy boots for the winter weather outside, his shadows twisting and twining around him, running up and down his wings.

Cas's eyes went, as always, to the wing that Amarantha had nearly torn from his back. The healers had done such a good job that his wing nearly looked normal, except that it dragged on the ground if he didn't work hard to keep it up in the air, hung a little lower than the other. The healers had told Azriel that he would never fly as effortlessly again, that he would never be able to go as far or as fast as he once had without stopping. "After all, you've actually woken me from a dead sleep before when you brought someone home."

A tendril of shadow found its way to Cassian and slid over his boot, hesitantly, testing. Cas moved his foot away from it.

"Az. Hey." He cleared his throat, pulling a coat of the coat rack by the door and sliding it on, pushing his wings through the specially made panels, never quite looking at him. "I'm just… headed out."

"Yes," Az said, in his empty, serious voice. "I noticed. What with the coat and the door and me being within six feet of you."

"I'll probably just head up to the cabin for a few days," Cas said, not looking at him. "I thought I might relax for a while. They just told me I'm going to go on trial in a couple of weeks for... for what happened. Frankly, I'm surprised they've just let me walk around free for so long already. Mor's brother must have been persuasive as hell when he and Rhys spoke to the war band leaders and the High Families."

"Anuie's spent years cultivating ties with everyone in the Night Court when his father wasn't looking, including the Illyrians. I gave him my approval to do so oh, twenty years or so ago, when I thought we might... well, that we might have to face Rhys ourselves eventually. I'm glad that risk paid off for us." When his hand was on the doorknob, Azriel took a deep breath and said, all in a rush, "Come out drinking with me tonight."

Cas paused, hand still on the door, and slowly turned to look at his friend. "What?"

"Come out with me. It's been ages. You barely speak to me anymore. I'll buy your drinks."

"Why?" He couldn't quite keep the worry out of his voice. "Az, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Cas, it's been six months of silence. Everyone's worried. Even _Amren_ said yesterday that you're not as annoying as you used to be, and I think she meant it as a bad thing. We need to _talk_ about what happened-"

"I don't _want_ to talk about it. I don't want to_ think_ about it. I told you I was sorry, I've told you a hundred times that I was sorry for what I did to you."

"Apologizing again isn't what I'm asking for. _You_ didn't do that, Cas."

"But it was _my weakness that made it happen, _Azriel!" He saw Az frown, a ghostly bit of hurt in those hazel eyes, at Cas using his full name. "It was a really shitty time, as far as I'm concerned, and I don't want to think about it ever again. I don't want to talk to you." He watched Azriel flinch with uncharacteristic hurt in his eyes and forced himself not to apologize or step towards him. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want you to try and fix it. I wrecked something really important, I... I did something _terrible_... and talking about it only makes me think about it more. So leave me alone."

He opened the door and stomped out into the snowy night, wings pulled tight against his back. He heard Azriel following him, could see him throwing on his own coat out of the corner of his eyes, and ignored it, heading down along the river, Az trailing a good twenty feet behind him at all times. They walked that way, Cas in angry silence, for the better part of a half hour, before he finally gave up trying to lose him.

He stopped, and didn't look back. Instead, he kept his eyes on the faelights on either side of the street, few and far between, in the part of town Cas was trying to escape to. "I told you to leave me alone. Did you not hear me? Did you forget how to _listen_, spymaster? It's not like we even remember it-"

"You and I both know we do," Azriel said quietly. Cas went very still as the shadowsinger shifted slightly from foot to foot. "I remember the fire, I remember... everything from the moment we ended up on that ledge. I lied and said I didn't to back you up, and I'm grateful that you protected me from being put on trial, too, but don't you dare lie _to me_. I've left you alone for half a year. I don't want to do that any longer. It's what you're doing now that's wrecking things, not what you did then. I want to talk about it now."

"Well, maybe I don't, Az! Did you consider that? That you're not the only one who gets to stand around in shadows being dramatic and brooding and silent? That Rhys isn't the only one who gets to be fucked up? I spent six months in her prison, right there beside her throne like her _pet,_ but when she offered - when she _showed me what she would give me - _I gave in to her, right then and there, and I-... I _hurt you._"

"I fell for it, too."

Cas froze. "You what?"

"I gave in when she offered something to me, too. Just like you."

"She wouldn't have gotten the chance if I weren't... if I hadn't... Augh! Let me stop talking about it, Az!" He turned away, starting to walk again, turning down an alley. He heard Azriel's footsteps start right back up, and closed his eyes against the flare of anger. "Stop following me, damn it! Let me explain a social nicety to you - no one who walks down a dark alley wants to be followed! So leave me the_ fuck_ alone!"

"No. Stop brooding."

"_Why_?"

"Brooding isn't you," Az said quietly. "Brooding is in_ my_ job description, not yours. And beating yourself up over things you can't change isn't like you, either."

"Fine. Fine. _Fine._" Cas took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, fighting down his annoyance. "Tell me, Az, what good could _possibly_ come from talking about it?"

"We won't know unless we do. But you can't just ignore me forever. I don't want you to. We've been friends for too long for that." Cas looked back to see him gnawing on his bottom lip, something he'd never seen him do before. "I also want to get drunk because I think we'll have to talk for a long time, and you and I both know how deeply uncomfortable that makes me."

"I'm not in the mood for drinking tonight, Az." Cas started walking again, and after a moment he felt Azriel's cold, scarred hand grab onto his wrist and turned around, trying to pull himself free. Az held on with surprising strength - or it would have been surprising, if Cas hadn't known him so well. Cas dropped his voice into a deadly quiet. "Let. Me. Go."

"Make me," Az said, his tone emotionless and infuriating.

Cas tried to shove him away, but Azriel didn't even shift under his hands, it felt like trying to shove a stone. "You know, just because you can't _feel_ the cold doesn't mean you can't get sick or get frostbite. When are you going to learn to wear _gloves_ in winter?"

Az shrugged. "I don't like how they feel on my fingers. I just put my hands in my pockets, that works well enough. Cas… I _want _to talk about it. Let me buy you dinner and drinks and we'll go back to my place after. I want you to stay with me."

"Az, I don't want to-" Cas took a breath, blew hair out of his face, found his eyes focused on Azriel's fingers wrapped around his wrist. "It would be too hard."

"Would it? Cas, ask me what she offered me. I want to tell you, but..." There was a pause, and Azriel swallowed, stepping closer to him, trying to get the other Illyrian to look him in the eye. Cas could have sworn he was nervous. "I remember what you said to me, Cas. At the end, when she was pulling... I remember. Please just ask."

Something in Azriel's face stopped him from pulling away again. He could feel Azriel's fingers warming where they touched him. He heard, not far off, ribald laughter, a woman and a man. Here in this dark alley, though, hardly able to see each other now that the longest night of the year had truly begun, they were alone.

"Fine. I'll play along, but after this, we're _done_ having this conversation. What _did_ you she offer you, Az?"

"She offered me _you, _you giant oblivious marshmallow."

Cas felt his heart lurch to a stop, a pause, then start beating again, rapidly, pounding in his throat. "She did? But..."

"Mor isn't the only fae on earth, and spending all my time thinking about not having her has been a _wonderful_ way to avoid thinking about the Illyrian general I was really not having." Azriel stepped slightly away, crossing his arms in front of himself. "Amarantha told me that if I let her in, she would... give me to you. That I wouldn't have to wonder any longer, or be afraid of losing you or losing what we are to each other. I wouldn't have to overthink and worry and analyze. I would just _want_ and _have. _That's all it took. All I heard in that song, Cas, was _you_."

He took a deep breath, and Cas wondered how long it had been since Azriel had said so many words together all at once.

"I gave in right then and there, up on that ledge," Azriel continued, a little softer. "You didn't hurt me, Cas. I _wanted _you... to do that. I think I've wanted that for a long time."

_I wanted you. _Cauldron, he'd had so many dreams where Az said something like that.

"You have?" His lips felt bloodless, numb.

"Yes. I just- Illyrians," Azriel said with a bitter smile, "don't."

"They clearly do," Cas said softly, and it was his turn to step closer. There was hardly any light here, just barely enough starlight to see by. "I don't know what it would mean, with the trial-"

"I don't give a damn," Azriel said simply. "I am _with you, _Cas, all the way to hell. Just..." Azriel's faint, barely-there expressions were missed by most people, but Cas had known him long enough to catch the flicker of insecurity and worry on his face before it was gone. "Please don't stop talking to me again."

There was a long silence. Then Cas let out a breath, jammed his hands in his coat pockets, and said, "When we were first separated, in the regiments, Rhys's father brought you along with him on his visits. Do you remember that?"

"Of course I do," Azriel said thoughtfully. "You were so happy out there. You beat them all at cards all the time."

"I was just biding my time until I could get back to you and Rhys. But that's not my point. There was this other male, Yamin, who used to swear up and down you could read minds. He refused to believe that I knew otherwise, and he had everyone - and I mean_ everyone_ \- in our regiment absolutely convinced you were daemati as well as a shadowsinger. I knew better, of course, but I could never explain to them_ how_ I knew better."

Azriel was silent. Then, softly, "What would you have told them, if you could have?"

"I'd have told them that I knew you couldn't read minds because if you could, you'd have seen the way I thought about you a long time ago, and probably never spoken to me again."

"You know that's not true."

"I didn't know that. Not then. So where do you want to go first? Drinks or straight back to your place for probably the most awkward conversation we're ever going to have?"

Az smiled. It was a wide, natural smile that lit up the lines of his classically beautiful face, warmed the cold hazel eyes. Cas had only seen this smile a few times in their long lives. Now that he thought about it, nearly every time had been for him. This time, he did not resist the urge; he took Azriel by the shoulders and, carefully, pushed him back against the wall. When Cas lowered his head Azriel raised his own, sliding arms up around his neck, pulling him close.

The kiss was a little more fumbled, more awkward, than he had planned for it to be. Their lips met but so did teeth, just a bit, as both of them struggled not to smile. Azriel always smelled like cedar and cold nights, and tasted... Cas caught himself beginning to laugh.

"What?" Azriel asked, eyebrow raised.

"You were already drinking," Cas said, shaking his head, still smiling. "You taste like kaymil. I've drunk enough of that in my life to know that taste _very well._ Come on, Az, you've been with a lot of people before. This can't make you that nervous."

"Of course I'm already drinking," Azriel muttered, looking away, starting to pull his arms back down. "No one before was _you_. I was terrified this would end differently."

"Drunk _and_ red in the face," Cas teased, but his expression softened when Az didn't look back at him. "Sorry. Can I try again? It's just hard to know where to start-"

"Yes," Azriel interrupted him, his voice strong and insistent, almost a command. "Try again."

This time, Cas took his time, slid his hands up Azriel's neck and felt him shiver, just a little, as fingertips grazed his cheekbones, slid behind his head, back down. He paused, looking at Azriel for permission. The other man nodded, slowly, and Cas let his fingertips trail against Azriel's bad wing, sliding under the panels of his coat and shirt to find the new scarring where his skin had torn and been healed. Azriel had refused to let the healers work on him until every injured Darkbringer and Velaran citizen had been worked on, and the healers had been pushed their limits, struggling to close the skin. Cas had sat next to him, holding onto one of those scarred hands with both of his, as they had carefully pieced back together the bones, slowly healed up the skin. "Does it hurt?"

Azriel took a deep breath, arching his back, pressing his shoulder back a little harder into Cas's hand. "What do you think?"

Cas leaned in. This time, it wasn't awkward. This time, he pressed his lips against Azriel's and felt the other male's mouth open for his, felt the shiver in his body. Azriel's grip tightened, fingers twisting into the fabric of his coat, and he held on to Cas as if he were a life raft after a shipwreck. Cassian had spent so long dreaming about this kiss, he couldn't seem to stop now that it was real, it was happening to him, the moment was here. He pressed Azriel back into the wall behind him, letting his hands roam. Azriel made soft sounds in the back of his throat, sounds Cas felt as much as heard as their tongues moved against each other. He broke away only long enough to trail his mouth down the side of Azriel's neck, then grazed his way back along the hard angles of his jaw, back to the mouth already open for his.

One of Azriel's shadows curled around the back of his neck, another around his wrist, a third brushed gently into the inside of his coat. The insubstantial chill of it lit his skin up. Azriel's shadows almost never touched anyone else. They'd only ever touched _him_ once or twice.

Cas thought they could have stayed here, fully clothed in an alleyway in a bad part of town, and it would still have been more than he'd ever expected. _I could be happy forever with just a few moments like this._

Some passerby, already drunk, stumbled past the alleyway and yelled something both encouraging and deeply vulgar in their general direction as he went. He felt Azriel's chest shake with laughter as Cas used his wings to hide their faces.

"You have more kaymil at your place?" Cas asked, softly, as they broke apart, hardly able to stand up straight. He had to force himself not to shove Azriel right back up against the wall or start pulling his clothes off, taking deep breaths of the frigid air to try and calm his body down. He didn't want to say it. He was afraid to say it and ruin this moment, a moment he'd dreamed of. _I'm afraid to be seen like this and recognized. It would mean I'd never lead a war band again. Devlon would use it against me in the trial. We can't, not where we can be seen. Illyrians don't._

Azriel smiled, a subtle, gentle understanding, mixed with sadness, on his face. "I have three bottles," He said quietly. At Cas's arched eyebrow, he shrugged. "If you said no, I intended to hide in my apartment and drink for a few days. Backup plan."

"You're suggesting no one will miss us for _days?_"

"I mean, you told Rhys you were going up to the cabin, right?" Azriel asked, something like mischief in his eyes. Cas was already pulling Azriel by one arm, grinning like a child, and Azriel couldn't seem to help but laugh along with him as they made their way back out into the road. "Cas, wait-"

Cas stopped, turning back to look at him. Azriel's face was lit by faelights and had gone strangely serious and intense. For a second Cas's heart stopped, worried that Azriel would tell him this was a mistake, he had just changed his mind, they shouldn't be doing this, Illyrians _don't-_

"Do we," Azriel asked in a lower, softer voice than Cas had ever heard from him, grabbing Cas's coat in both scarred hands and pulling him close, leaning their foreheads together, "absolutely _have_ to do the talking part first?"


End file.
